


An Introduction to Supernatural Entities

by EucratesBrice



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternative Universe - FBI, BAMF Derek Hale, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Derek Hale, F/F, F/M, FBI Agent Danny, FBI Agent Jackson Whittemore, FBI Agent Lydia Martin, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, FBI agent Kira Yukimura, M/M, The Pack is Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-19 02:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EucratesBrice/pseuds/EucratesBrice
Summary: The name proudly sitting atop the FBI's most wanted list for crimes of murder, espionage, treason, fraud, and the rest of the Penal Code is Derek Hale. He's the most elusive criminal, winding in and out of cities and countries before anyone can even catch a second glance of him. For nearly half of his life, Agent Whittemore has been desperately trying to track him and pin him down.Then Derek Hale strolls into a underfunded police station in Belleville, Kansas, and Jackson Whittemore is faced with the job of offering him immunity so that the notorious mafia boss can work as an asset with his tactical A- team. There's just one condition; Hale will only speak to one single FBI agent, Stiles Stilinski.





	1. An Ever Running River of Unanswered Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically Teen Wolf if it was Blacklist, except without the Daddy Issues. Well, without most of the Daddy Issues. Derek isn't secretly Stiles dad, or mom, or family. Let's just put that out there  
> You don't have to have watched Blacklist to understand this at all. Any explanation for any situation will be given. I simply was inspired by blacklist the TV show and used the whole 'criminal working with one single FBI agent' plot line, so I felt the need to credit Blacklist. The finer details of the plot will be different, and the characters will be different too.  
> TW;  
> 1) blood and gore, canon typical violence.  
> 2) swearing, foul language.

**One**.

**An Ever Running River of Unanswered Questions**

_(Chapter Song; River- Bishops)_

* * *

He’s tied to a chair; legs, chest, hands all bound tight with a thick rope that burns into his skin. His vision is swimming, he’s not sure entirely of how he got here. He’s in a warehouse, that much he can tell- a large empty room, with high ceilings, beams stretching from one end to another with no clear purpose and large windows elevated high up that allow a gentle light to filter in. There’s a single light bulb, shaking above him, illuminating his body and every scratch and scar that dots and paints his skin.

And that smell, _God what’s that smell?_ Sharp, heady, bitter. His shirt is ripped, his jeans have tears and cuts all over them that reveal his pale cut up skin, his feet are bare. He moves his toes- clenches and unclenches them. There’s cold water like a puddle around his feet, seeping through the webbing of his toes. He strains his neck to look down.

It’s not water, _God_ – it’s blood. So much blood. Red, thick, cold blood. There are bodies all around him, some with blood still rushing out, the others cold and withered. It isn’t a puddle. It’s a river. Stretching across the warehouse floor, winding around the bodies.

He can feel the burn of bile rising up in his throat. The clicking of heels against cement ring through out the warehouse, bashing against the walls of his head. Red heels step into the pool of blood, walking forward with sure purpose. _Splash, splash, splash_.

Through the blood.

 _Splash, splash, splash_. He struggles against his binding, can feel the burn etch up his arms. He can’t scream, his throat is raw, burning and dry. Lips cracked, voice nothing but a hoarse whisper. The woman moves forward- stalks forward, a predator, eyes watching her prey writhe desperately, chair shaking with the force of his movement. She stretches her arms behind her back, cracking her knuckles. The sound echoes around the room, mingling with the sound of the legs of the chair scraping against the floor. She tuts, lips curling into a viscous smile that spread across her face like wildfire. Eyes a burning fire, barely concealing it’s fiery malice. Heels click against the floor, causing ripples to erupt in the river of blood.

  
“Now,” she smiles, “I advise you to tell me what I want to know, because you’d hate to see what happens when I don’t get what I want.”

  
He struggles against his ropes, straining his body in a pathetic attempt to somehow wiggle out, “You’ll get nothing out if me, you monster,” he spits.

  
Her grin only grows, “Oh,” fingers stretch, claws unsheathe in a snap, “You have _no_ idea."

* * *

The morning rush is inevitable- people bustling to and fro either rushing away from their lives or rushing to it, or both simultaneously as is life in Washington, DC. Everyone in uniform- suit and tie, with a cup of one dollar scalding black coffee in their hands, clutched tightly like it’s a lifeline, like it’s the only thing keeping them sane and afloat amidst the wild rush of the workday morning.

Feet thud against pavement floor, hurriedly making their way to crossing lines, or to vacant corners where they can stretch out their arm and desperately wave down a little yellow cab, driven by an equally flustered, equally coffee riddled, equally depressed person. Cigarettes are hung between parted lips, creating little clouds of smoke that wincing faces walk through, coughing audibly, shooting glares of disapproval as they do so. Stiles jogs down the pavement, winding past bodies, narrowly avoiding collision with distracted passers-by whose phones are perpetually glued to their ears, eyebrows perpetually drawn deep in frown as their recieve their third lecture for the day from an equally distracted, equally harassed and equally depressed boss.

He clutches his laptop bag to the front of his chest as he dodges past little dogs on leashes and larger guide dogs that shoot him judgemental glares. He can feel his phone vibrate earnestly in his pocket, can feel the stacks upon stacks of lectures being ignored due to the sheer impossibility of shoving his hand into his pocket and reaching for his phone in the thick throng of people headed to the subway. He races down the stairs, gripping the suspiciously sticky banister to avoid tumbling down and dragging fifty people with him as collateral.

A quick time check informs him that he has exactly five minutes to make it to his train, or he can kiss his ass good bye. His feet move fast, body wiry and lean enough to slip past people without trouble, his whole being unassuming enough to jog past people in line without eliciting any protests. He skids to an abrupt halt as the tinny automated voice announces the arrival of the train. A thousand coffee driven, nervous, tired, depressed bodies pile on to the train, all equally aware to mind the gap.

His phone ceases it’s whirring, having successfully lost all connection to the signal in the outside world. Stiles takes up his usually position by the doors, leaning against the cold metal wall of the train while popping in his earphone to drown out the sounds of heaving breathing, coughing, lectures and the general depression of the Washington Morning Rush.

This is his dream life, despite the cloud of desolation and sadness the morning hours have, this is his dream. Everything he’s wanted in life stuffed into one package deal. Of course it has its merits and demerits. Stiles shifts, trying to find a comfortable position. His laptop bag sits too heavily on his shoulder.

Across from him, a woman cradles her crying baby, her eyes trained on her child and determinedly ignoring the plethora of withering glares the patrons of the train shoot her way. People shift in their seats, focusing their attention on books of various genres – ones that detail the journey Malcolm X to others that tell tales of deeply flawed love stories and sex by fireplaces, ones with scantily clad women on the front or faces of an old gentle man boasting the secret to serenity and prosperity. Some choose books to hide their faces in, others magazines, others their phones or some simply allow their eyes to stare blankly at the opposite wall, focus immersed in their own thoughts.

On the seat next to the woman sits a priest, arms clutching the Good Book, lips set in a thin line. His eyes have glossed over, no doubt lost in some train of thought. There’s a man seated a few seats over, reading a book about Warren Buffet, shifting constantly as he tries to get comfortable, a hopeless endeavour considering his three piece stuffy suit and heavy black trench coat. The woman next to him is asleep, head cradled on her lover’s shoulder, who strokes her hair and occasionally drops faint kisses on her forehead. Stiles can only hope that’s her lover, or friend, or sibling of some sort. The thought that it may very well be some stranger unnerves him, and he shifts his gaze to the next patron.

The fair, curly haired man's face is shielded from view by a Times magazine. He’s standing, leaning casually against the door much like Stiles is, except his posture is far more composed- legs crossed in front of each other, body a straight rigid line. As if feeling Stiles’ gaze on him, he drops the magazine, eyes making instant contact with Stiles’ own. He can’t look away. The man’s eyes pierce straight through his own. Over head, the tinny automated voice joyfully announces, “ _Arriving at Gallery Place, Chinatown. Gallery Place, Chinatown_.” 

The man shields his face once again, the baby wails just a little bit loud and the train lurches to a stop. The doors slide open like floodgates and people rush out, tumbling and crashing into one another in an apocalyptic run to their places of work. Stiles strides out, feet moving in a hurry- out the train, through the platform, up the stairs.

His phone whirrs again, having reached signal once more. He groans, reaching down into his pocket to fish it out. A woman brushes past him sharply, knocking into his elbow as she does. He fumbles with his phone, trying to grab at it before it falls down and is left at the mercy of a thousand stampeding feet. A hand stretches out into his line of vision and grabs his phone.

  
“If you’re trying to steal from me,” Stiles says, turning to face the man, “You should know, I’m law enforcement.”

  
The fair faced man with the Time magazine tucked under his armpit smiles, “No theft intended. Here.”

  
He places the phone in Stiles palm, shooting him one more quick smile before jogging slowly up the stairs. His pace is out of place- an unnerving contrast to the rushing throng of bodies exiting the subway. _Tourist_ , Stiles inwardly mutters, before staring down at the myriad of missed calls on his phone screen. He jogs out of the subway, and sticks out his arm to hail a cab. He scrolls through his messages, most of them a startling _red alert_ and others all reading various forms of the phrase, _Hurry, emergency_.

A yellow cab screeches as it stops in front of him. He pulls the door open and slides in. The driver looks at him through the rear-view mirror, eyebrows raised.

  
“10th street please,” he says, distractedly.

The drive is filled with panic. None of the missed calls answer back, his messages fall to deaf ears and no other information has been dispensed to him. In front the cab driver hums along to the droning sound of the radio. 

“You FBI or something?” he asks, tapping his fingers on the wheel as they wind through the thick morning traffic.

* * *

Jackson Whittemore’s day isn’t supposed to start off with such pungent, foul smells. He shifts uncomfortably on the cold metal chair by the Sherriff's desk. The foul odour of sweaty bodies wafts around the room, tinged with the heady smell of the warm outside streets. The precinct is a shit show.

The seat he’s sitting on has at least five different wads of chewed up gum stuck to the bottom- he knows, he checked- and suspicious scratches all along its metal surface. Do they let the canines sit on it, or do people in this town never cut their nails? He winces, nose curling up in disgust as the door to the sheriff’s office flies open, allowing more of the putrid smell of underpaid, overworked officers to float in.

  
“Sorry to have to keep you boys waiting,” the sheriff mutters, sitting down heavily on the chair behind the desk and prodding a strange looking sandwich, “The names Sheriff Butler.”

Jackson nods politely, extending his hand despite the million internal protests, “My name is Agent Whittemore, this is my partner, Agent Yukimura. I understand we were called down here because of a... criminal...in your custody?” 

The Sherriff takes his hand, shaking it for two long beats before letting it drop and opting to pick up his sandwich. Jackson sustains his wince and discreetly wipes his hand on his pant leg, ignoring the momentary glare of judgement Agent Yukimura shoots his way.

  
“He’s in interrogation room two,” the sheriff mutters over a mouthful of food, “We was going to question him, but he refuses to talk. Told us his name though. That’s when we called you boys in.”

  
Jackson curls his lip in a strained attempt at a polite smile, “And why was he brought in, exactly?”

  
“Uh...he kind of walked in on his lonesome,” the Sherriff shrugs, “Said he’s here to talk about the Dawson Warehouse case. Didn’t do much talking though.”

  
“I’m sorry, the Dawson Warehouse case?” Agent Yukimura leans forwards, elbows perched on her knees.

  
Jackson’s unsure of whether she’s feigning interests or genuinely thinks this nutcase of a precinct has anything good to offer. Either way, her questions bore him. He sighs inaudibly, and leans back in his seat, eyeing a poster hanging on the wall of an senior officer proudly boasting to be Belleville’s Finest.

  
“Oh yeah,” the Sherriff nods earnestly, “Real tricky case. Blood stains all across the floor. No bodies. No prints. I mean, plus no bodies to match blood samples to. No witnesses. It’s a dead end.”

  
Jackson perks up, “No leads? And the guy waltzes into the precinct, says he’s got a lead?”

  
The Sherriff frowns, seemingly attempting to recall the events, “Didn’t say he had a lead no. Just said he wanted to talk about it. So we done popped him in room two, sent one of our nicest to talk to him. We would have sent him to a comfy room, he ain’t no suspect, but you see, resources are down and we don’t have that kind of facilities no more.”

  
Jackson nods, waving his hand impatiently, “Yeah, yeah great sob story. So what, this guy waltzes in, says he wants to talk, then what?”

  
“Why call on the FBI?” Yukimura pipes up, tone light in a clear attempt to balance out his harsh one.

  
The sheriff glares at Jackson and turns his attention to Yukimura, “So my nicest man walks in and walks out. We ask him what the hell Bobby, and Bobby says the man won’t talk. Now imagine my surprise. The man walked in to talk, right? So what gives. Says the man gave him his name, told him to run it but hell, we didn’t need to run it. We’ve heard of this bastard even all the way down south here. So we said, hell Bobby, what’s the fellows name and well- you won’t believe me Agent Yuksman.”

  
Ah, Jackson grins, fat mistake.

  
Agent Yukimura bristles, “Its Yukimura. Now either tell us why you hailed us over all the way from DC, or take us to the interrogation room, you’re wasting our time.”

  
The walk to the interrogation room is short, and painful. There are various smells of cheap coffee, printing ink, sour smell of meat and sauces. Wondering eyes stare as they pass bye, muttering things inaudible to the pair of agents. Either in jealously or curiosity. Jackson juts his chin out, forces his shoulders to take up more space. Agent Yukimura's tiny little body stalks beside him, face set in a grin line. He can only hope that whatever is waiting for them behind that one way mirror is the El Dorado of criminals, because while he may be ruthless when angry, there’s nothing worse than an angered Kira Yukimura. The woman moves fast, like a fucking snake. Belleville’s going to have their entire police force dismembered by the end of this.

They step into the dimly lit room behind the one way mirror of interrogation room. Seated before them, lounging casually on the metal chair, in a large black trench coat with his feet propped up on the table, is –

  
“What the hell is Derek Hale doing in the shittiest part of Kansas?” Jackson gapes.

  
Yukimura shoots him an unimpressed look, “What the hell is Derek Hale doing, _willingly_ in a _police station_ in the shittiest part of Kansas?”

  
The aforementioned man behind the glass looks up sharply, turning slowly to make direct eye contact with Jackson. Jackson can feel the slow trickle of sweat run down his neck. The room is suddenly stuffier than it was before, overcrowded, despite there being only three people in it.

  
“Told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” the Sherriff shrugs, too nonchalant for someone who is in the presence of a man who is devoid of morals.

  
A man who has killed in cold blood, committed fraud, treason, espionage and far too many crimes he may as read out the entire penal code. Done everything short of rape and child abuse. A man who has escaped Jackson’s fingers for years upon years, slipping past like sand.

  
“Agent Whittemore, is that you?” his honey smooth, deep voice filters through the intercom, “I can smell your sweat.”

  
Jackson swallows the lump that’s forming in his throat. Beside him, Yukimura stiffens.

  
“Did you tell him we’re here?” she whispers to the Sherriff, who shrugs in response- too nonchalant, too fucking stupid.

  
“Hell Yukimura, he only knew my name a second ago,” Jackson waves wildly at the Sherriff’s figure.

  
Yukimura grimaces.

  
“You needn’t sweat it out,” Hale continues, languidly rising with ease, “I mean no harm. I simply have intel. Intel that is very pertinent to the case you are currently investigating, Agent.”

  
Jackson clears his throat and presses down on the little button on the mike, “Alright. I’ll bite. You’re here, in a police station, unarmed, Hale. I think the only thing you’re going to do is quietly get arrested.”

  
He lets go of the button and turns to Yukimura, “Get the boys in. Tell them to come heavily armed. Let’s get this son of a bitch out of here.”

  
Hale tuts, “My mother was actually a lovely woman, Agent.”

  
Jackson bristles, shooting a whitening glare at the Sherriff, “Can you tell me why he can hear me?”

  
The Sherriff shrugs, “Did you let go of the little button on the mike? Cause sometimes I think I’ve let go but-,”

  
“Yes of course I fucking let go of the button!”

  
“Now, Agent, there’s no need to lose your temper. The Sherriff has done anything wrong, save for being incompetent. The three murders in Beacon Hills. I have intel you’re going to want to hear.”

  
Yukimura frowns, “How does he know that? You think he did it?”

  
Jackson sighs, presses down on the button, “You have my attention.”

  
Hale looks back at the mirror, smiling directly at the two agents, “Good. Now, if you want to hear more you’ll kindly bring me Stiles Stilinski. From here on, trust that I will only speak to Stiles Stilinski.”

  
Yukimura’s frown deepens. Jackson’s eyebrows mimic her own, “What the _fuck_ is a Stiles?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm sick in bed and started this story. I have my biggest exams coming up, so fuck me for starting this but it's been living in my head for so long so I have :D  
> Fun fact; I used to go to second hand sales and buy crime thriller books for my mom because she loved them so much. I would have been seven or eight when I started it, and one day I read one of the books I bought her and just became obesesed with crime thriller. It's such a creative genre. I'm not a serial killer I swear to god.


	2. Plausibility, It Seems, Is A Thing Of The Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note; you needn't have to have watched Blacklist to understand this sorry at all. I'll be explaining everything that needs to be explained. I've only used the skeleton of the show and some scenes as a reference base.

**Two**.

  
**Plausibility, It Seems, Is A Thing Of The Past.**

  
_(Song: Smiling Face Sometimes – Temptations)_

* * *

For the first time in her life, she’s reached a dead end. There’s nowhere to go, no possible avenue to take, no path in sight that would lead to some kind of clue. She’s supposed to be the person who can see beyond what others could; to see the finer details hidden under cheap clean up jobs, to see tracks that would lead them right to the culprit red handed, lead them right to the masked dummy who writhes and complains, _'I would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you meddling kids!’._

Right now, she’s stumped, head cradled in her hands as she pours over a large map of Central California. The Beacon Hills Murders; three bodies, no scene of crime, all three bodies found in three separate locations, five days after the three individuals were reported missing by their respective loved ones. All three bodies- no murder weapon, no poison in their systems, no incision of any sort – no cuts, no bullet holes, no severed limbs- only faint markings made of crushed herbs and fruits finger painted all across their naked bodies.

Lydia Martin is stumped. Her heels click on the floor impatiently, her mind creating and then breaking down a thousand different possible scenarios at once, before dismissing each one as absolutely ridiculous and impossible. Nothing adds up, and she’s willing to blame it on goddamn bloody California.

  
“Its a ritual of some sort, at least that much we know,” she sighs, “The finger painting seems to be some kind of ritualistic pattern, tribal most likely. My guess is the Mojave or Miwok tribes.”

  
Danny perks up from where he’s crouched over his laptop, “Unlikely.”

  
“Its a central California tribe-,”

  
“Beacon Hills is way out of the Mojave or Miwok sphere of influence. In fact, I doubt there are any native American tribes that have feet on the ground near Beacon Hills. And to travel up so far north? Doesn’t seem plausible.”

  
“Plausibility flew out the window the second we found dead bodies with no cause of death.”

  
Danny shrugs, “Fair point. But I might have another lead, check this out.”

  
Lydia sighs and walks over to Danny’s side of the table. It’s cluttered with empty noodle boxes, crushed and balled up papers that he had no doubt written brief sentences on before foregoing all together and a total of eleven cans of diet coke. The point of diet coke was completely beyond her understanding, given that the corn-starch in diet coke was no doubt worse to consume than the sugar in regular coke. Her side of the table was virtually bare, save for the neat line of three pens, a notebook and a compact mirror laid beside her laptop as though she was knolling. She grimaces, stepping over a stray can of diet coke that had fallen overboard, before standing beside Danny to peer at his laptop screen.

  
“Fifteen years ago, in Beacon Hills there were a set of similar murders. Not exactly to the dot, since the bodies were found with bullets in their heads. But the bodies, all of them donning similar tribal markings, all of them having been kidnapped almost a week before they were found, and all of them found naked. They were found in the same location, tied up with rope.”

  
“Our guys didn’t have any rope burns,” Lydia interjects, swiftly tying up her long cherry red tresses into a high pony tail.

  
“But it’s a similar M.O. We could be dealing with a copy cat criminal, with poor attention to detail.”

  
“Doesn’t rule out the native tribes...and it didn’t occur to the Beacon Hills PD to dig up this old case before contacting us?”

  
“Less of an _old case_ , more of a _cold case_. I doubt they’d even recall this. It was fifteen years ago, and it was a null case- completely shut down by the Sherriff at the time. Records are practically useless, looks like they just found the bodies and just decided to call it quits.”

  
“So maybe it isn’t a copy cat criminal at all, maybe someone’s back to finish the job. Who was working the case? Maybe we can jog his memory, see what he remembers, if he has anything off the records.”

  
“The deputy working the case at the time passed away ten years ago, doubt that’s a coincidence.”

  
“Got any family left?”

  
“None. And you won’t believe who the deputy is,” Danny’s grin turns maniacal, eyes glinting as something in him awakens- the little child of curiosity inside him that gleefully dances at danger, most likely.

This was not good.

As if on cue, the doors to the Black Site open in it’s slow and painfully loud ascent. They creak open, rising upwards like a garage door, revealing a shaken Agent Whittemore and equally shaken, but even more tired Agent Yukimura, flanked by at least a dozen U.S Marshalls. Between the two, smugly standing with a relaxed posture, arms chained up in front of him, smirk lazily playing at his lips while is eyes glint with sure joy, is FBI’s most wanted, most elusive Derek Hale.

Whittemore jerks him forward when the doors cease their ascent, pulling him by the chains as they make their way to the Box. Yukimura breaks away, making a beeline for the coffee dispenser. The Marshalls follow Whittemore in a straight, perfect line- each one with the exact same grim facial expression, with faint signs of confusion resting just beyond their eyes.

  
“How’d you reckon they caught him?” Danny says, voice tinged with awe that it comes out as a mere breath.

  
Lydia shrugs, “So, who’d you say this deputy was?”

  
“I didn’t,” Danny grin drops, “But it was someone by the name of Deputy Michael _Hale_.”

* * *

  
“What does he want with Agent Stiles Stilinski?”

  
Jackson sighs and drops down on the chair in front of the Assistant Director's table, “So it’s an agent? What the hell kind of name is that?”

  
“Jackson,” Agent Yukimura chides, “Be serious. This guy willingly hands himself over to the Belleville police department, and says he’s got intel on the Beacon Hills murder?”

  
“We know a very little about Hale,” Assistant Director Argent sighs, rising up from his chair, “But one thing we’ve always know is that he was from Beacon Hills. That’s where his criminal record starts.”

  
“So he’s got a personal interest in this case? This being his homeland and all?” Jackson leans forward, “And what about this Stiller guy? What’s he got to offer?”

  
“Stiles. _Agent_ Stilinski, actually,” Assistant Director Argent grimaces, “He’s one of the profilers up in head quarters. I’ve got his file here, and he’s not much. He’s a great profiler, but there are many great profilers. One thing sticks out- he’s a former resident of Beacon Hills.”

  
“So you think he’s got connections with Hale?” Jackson frowns, “He’s Hale's mole or something?”

  
“Father was law enforcement, Sherriff, mother died early but worked as a on call medic for the PD,” Argent sighs, “Doubtful that the boy would do a complete one eighty. But I won’t rule it out. He’s worked with the Bureau for a couple of years now, and if he works at the HQ, then he’s thoroughly vetted. It’s unlikely...but again, I won’t rule it out.”

  
“Okay but why this Stilinski guy? Look, if he wants someone from Beacon Hills, let’s give him an officer from the PD. Makes more sense,” Jackson reasons.

  
“From what you’ve told me, Agent, it didn’t sound like a simple request. More like a demand, or a condition.”

  
“Why are we biting Hale’s bullet anyway?” Jackson groans, running his fingers through his hair.

  
“And why are we assuming Hale has anything to offer?” Yukimura adds, rising to stand by the window.

  
From her position she has a direct line of vision to Hale, sitting casually in the Box- a large glass contraption, sealed at every corner, containing on single chair to which the said man is chained. As if noticing her glare, Hale looks up and smiles. It’s an eerie smile, one that does not quite reach his eyes. The man is beautiful, there’s no doubt of that. His physical appearance is probably his greatest asset- one that allows him to charm his way out of any situation. It’s beauty that borders cruelty by a fine line.

His five o clock shadow and thick beard cleanly outlines his sharp jaw. His whole face is a work in sharp edges and rough corners. Eyes a myriad of colours, eyebrows thick and curious. One moment to the next, his face can go from open and inviting to closed off and terrifying. Eyebrows furrowed deep, eyes dark, jaw set tight. She feels a shudder run through her body, all the way up her spine and settling somewhere near the nape of her neck.

She gently grasps her bottom lip with her teeth and bites down till she can feel the cold trickle of blood. His smile only seems to grow, lips parting to reveal a faint sliver of teeth and for just a brief moment his canines shine in the light, seemingly _too_ sharp just for a moment, just for a brief second and then it’s gone and his lips are once more resting in a lazy smirk. The shiver runs down her body once more, and settles in her toes which curl up inside her boots.

  
“Well then, let’s ask him,” Argent nods firmly.

  
“Ask him?” Yukimura echoes.

  
“Let’s ask him what he knows.”

  
Argent stalks out of his office, flanked by a worried and jittery Yukimura and a stoic Whittemore. He nods sharply at the Marshalls as he passes and they take up their positions around the Box.

The Box itself is inescapable- a contraption held in the centre of the room, the door only openable with a hand print and a secure code. Hale was essentially a hamster in a tightly sealed cage, completely at the mercy of Argent’s tactical team and the heavily armed U.S Marshalls. Argent took up his place in the Comms room; a room unseen from the Box, filled with screens either detailing various different pieces of information relevant to his tech team of Lydia and Danny, or screens that display live feeds of the other rooms in the Black Site, the parking lot and the Box. Argent focuses his attention on the screen that shows Hale seated languidly with one ankle resting on the other knee, eyes trained to the camera. He smiles.

Argent presses down on the button near the mike that’s connected to the little speakers in the Box, “Alright Hale, you have my attention.”

Hale’s eyes light up, “Assistant Director Chris Argent, my god is that you? They’ve stuck you in this god forsaken hole have they? What do you even do here?”

Argent bristles, “You say you have intel on the Beacon Hills murder, please, enlighten me as to why we shouldn’t stick you in Guantanamo Bay and call it a day.”

Hale laughs, “I do have intel on these murders, as well as several others you may be interested in. No, I didn’t commit them. I’m not here to implicate myself.”

“Well then,” Argent frowns, “Please do share with the rest of the class.”

“I’m not sure if Agent Whittemore passed on my message, but I will only speak to Stiles Stilinski. Bring me the boy, you’ll have your information, Chris.”

“I don’t think so. Right now, it sounds like you’re bluffing.”

“Is that a gamble you want to take?”

“Consider this a down payment, Hale, for you life. Tell me what you know, and I’ll consider bringing Agent Stilinski in.”

Hale pauses, pondering on the offer. A beat passes.

“Fair enough. Tell your people to look up a ritual called Dance of the Wolves.”

Lydia races to her laptop, manicured fingers hastily tapping at the keys. A large screen blinks for a second, then reveal a strange looking webpage. Lydia points,  
“Its a... Wiccan ritual.”

“Witches?” Danny scoffs, “That’s his lead?”

Lydia frowns, fingers flying against the keyboard once more.

Chris raises a deft eyebrow, “Witches, Hale? Really?”

“You and I both know that witches are a far cry from terrifying bed time tales, Chris. Far more dangerous than stuffing little kids with candy and then popping them into an oven when their fat enough. No, you and I are smarter than that, aren’t we?”

“What is he talking about, Sir?” Danny frowns.

“I’m sorry, real witches?” Lydia groans, “So the legends are wrong, and Derek Hale is actually a lunatic?”

The room is silent. The mike crackles softly, Derek Hale leans back in his chair, smiling.

“Come on,” Lydia scoffs, scanning the room awaiting the other Agents agreement, “Whittemore? There’s no way you believe this? This is ludicrous!”

“I wouldn’t....I wouldn’t rule it out,” Jackson sighs, moving towards the screen, “Look at that picture. It’s the same patterns as the bodies. All of the text here is in some shit language but... The picture is the same.”

“Look Lyds,” Danny whispers, “Plausibility is out the window, right? Jackson’s right. The text is unreadable, but the markings in the picture are the same.”

“We have other leads,” Lydia protests, “Like the cold case! Sir, Danny and I found an old case in Beacon Hills, similar markings- similar Modus Operandi.”

“You said cold case,” Argent frowns, “Am I to understand that this case has no leads as well?”

“Well,” Lydia sighs, “Its something? It’s something more believable, more realistic- it’s not witches!”

“Just look at that picture, Martin,” Jackson rubs his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh, “This is ridiculous to me too, but maybe whatever is being said in that...text...can aid us, even in the slightest. You think a well known criminal whose been evading the law for years would drop by because he has false intel?”

“That’s archaic Latin,” Lydia scoffs.

“What?”

“That shit language? It’s archaic Latin.”

“Danny, can you find a way to translate it?” Jackson asks, stepping forward to stand behind the tech agent.

“There’s no need to bother, Agent,” Hale smiles, “I’ve taken care of that myself. Bring in Stiles Stilinski and he can tell you what it says. But you better hurry, because from what I’ve heard, the three dead bodies you found? That’s only the beginning.”

“Can someone please tell me,” Jackson groans, “Why the fuck he can always hear me?”

* * *

  
Stiles has been sitting in this chair for over an hour. He feels sixteen again, sent to the Sherriff’s room after being caught doing something vaguely bordering on illegal. His father will come in soon, eyebrows heavy with disapproval but eyes light with mirth. At least they used to be, at first. Over time, they only got tired. Nights got longer, days even more so- there might have been twenty four hours to kill, but none of them to spare to deal with a delinquent son. He’ll enter the room with a sigh, usually one baring the same lilt as his name, ' _Stiles_ ,' he’ll breathe out. Stiles shifts in his chair.

He feels six again, in the hospital waiting room, doing just what the room was built for and _waiting_ \- hours upon hours for someone, _anyone_ to say something, _anything_. Nurse Judy will waddle over to him, holding a little cherry lollipop, she’ll give it to him, tell him his father will be out soon. No one will tell him the truth for three months, till he’s worn out and tired and every bone in his body is screaming- till he figures it out himself; mom is going to be waiting in the waiting room for much longer, she’s probably never going to come back.

The door opens, and a tired man walks in- heavy set eyebrows, hair greying almost completely, dark circles under his eyes, the mirth in said eyes wavering, almost dissipating but not quite yet. He reminds him of his father, just a tad bit more tired.

  
Stiles hastily rises to his feet, outstretching is arm in anticipation of a firm handshake, “Sir, you wanted to see me?”

  
The handshake is, indeed, firm. The man takes a seat near Stiles, instead of on the opposite side of the table. Stiles forces down the nostalgic feeling of sitting beside his father, using thousand words a minute to explain why he was in the woods looking for dismembered bodies or trying to solve a robbery he should have had no idea about. The man carefully takes the file off the table, it’s cover donning Stiles’ name all over it. Stiles subtly gulps.

The door opens once again, and an unfamiliar face walks in. He has short blond hair that sticks up neatly, not like Stiles’ own which looks like he’d been running his fingers through for the past hour. Hint; he had. His build is stoic, heavy set shoulders and packed muscle. He’s strong, gruff, and angry. He takes a seat in the corner of the room, fiddling with his tie as he eyes Stiles suspiciously.

  
“Agent Stiles Stilinski,” the older man frowns at the contents of the file, “My name is Assistant Director Chris Argent.”

  
Stiles smiles, “I know who you are, Sir.”

  
AD Argent smiles back, eyes crinkling ever so slightly, “Over there is Agent Jackson Whittemore. It says here you graduated Berkley, top of your class. You’ve been working nothing but high profile cases here as, well, a profiler. What inspired you to join the FBI?”

  
Stiles shrugs, “Nothing impressive. My father worked in the law enforcement at the Beacon Hills Police Department all his life, law enforcement was all I ever knew. And I respected what he did. It was honest work. There was just no place for me at the Beacon Hills PD, sir. And the FBI has amazing resources, and cases too. I like a challenge.”

  
AD Argent nods solemnly, “Was leaving Beacon Hills easy?”

  
“I’m sorry, Sir?”

  
“Was leaving Beacon Hills an easy thing to do?”

Stiles swallows, “Yes and no. I wanted to leave. It’s a small town, and I don’t work well in small towns. But leaving my dad wasn’t the easiest thing to do- no. Leaving the town was easy. It was nothing but bad memories. Leaving my dad was hard. Is hard. Will always be hard. But I don’t regret it, no sir. I love my job.”

Argent laughs, “I’m not questioning your commitment, son. I just want to know why Derek Hale would want to only speak with you.”

Stiles sighs, “I don’t know sir. I’ve never met the man, never even worked on one of his cases. He moved out of Beacon Hills while I was still very young. I’ve never even met his family. To be perfectly candid, my father worked the Hale Family Fire case, but then again, every deputy in Beacon Hills did.”

Argent leans back in his seat, “So Derek Hale, young boy of fifteen years old, top of his class with a sure fire pathway to Harvard comes home one day and sets his entire family and his childhood home on fire, disappears into the darkness and emerges five years later as a criminal. Ten years more, and suddenly he’s on my most wanted list. And now, he’s in my custody asking for you. You said your father worked the case. Did he work against Hale?”

“I don’t think there was anyone working under the assumption that Hale was innocent, Sir. The evidence was crystal clear, and all of it pointed to him. But my father didn’t work the arson case at all- he was simply on call at the fire.”

Argent nods, closes the file and places it on the table, “So tell me, why do you think he wants to talk to you? What do you think is his angle?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re a profiler, yes? Profile him. Profile yourself. Tell me why Derek Hale would chose you.”

Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his seat, steals a quick glance at Agent Whittemore before answering, “Because he thinks I’m weak. I’m not built like Agent Whittemore over there. I’m jumpy- I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD, it often means one is constantly distracted. It also means that when I set my mind to something, I will find it. I have learned to use my disorder to my benefit. So he knows what I’ve been diagnosed with, but he doesn’t know what I’ve _become_. Like I said, I’m not built like a typical soldier, I appear weak and frail and tiny. But I’m not, he’s mistaken. He thinks he can get away with being able to boss me around- but I was raised by an officer of the law. Holding my ground is the first thing I learnt. I’m a profiler, so he must think I’m not very good on the field, which typically means I’m not quick- he thinks he’ll be able to overpower me, if he can’t outwit me.”

“Will he?”

“No sir. I’m a perfect shot. I played lacrosse all through out high school and college; I’m fit. I’m not one to be overpowered or outwitted. He thinks he’s got me all figured out, maybe he had people scout my past- I know he’s from Beacon Hills, he must know I am. He must think we are kindred spirits. We’re not. I think, I think he chose me because he thinks I’m weak. I’m easily manipulated. He’s wrong, Sir. Very, very wrong. Derek Hale is arrogant, he likes to be in command. He thinks he has me all figured out. He's wrong.”

* * *

  
The drive to the Black Site from the FBI headquarters is long. The black SUVs roll to a stop outside an abandoned warehouse facility whose broken sign read Toys For Life. Agent Whittemore gets out of the car first, signalling the Marshalls to get down from their cars, guns hoisted and ready.

“Is there always this many guns? Doesn’t seem very discreet,” Stiles presses his lips to a flat line.

AD Argent shakes his head, “Only when we have FBI's most wanted in custody, with no clear reasoning as to why we have him at all.”

Stiles nods and gets down out of the vehicle, following the Assistant Director and Agent Whittemore towards the entrance. They take his badge and ID, scanning it for a moment, offering him looks of curiosity. Take his service weapon, log it in, hand it back. Pat him down. Take his picture. All short of taking out a Q-tip and swabbing him for a spit sample. They step into a service elevator, and it creaks into action. It feels like they are traveling down forever. Stiles steals a glance at the Agent by his side, but Whittemore remains forward facing, face set in grim determination. This was either going to be his deathbed, or the world’s best conversation opener.

The elevator slams to a halt, and the doors creak open absurdly slowly. They march out, bodies set in tight fine lines- _fear_ , Stiles notes. They are _scared_. _Worried_. _Nervous_. All of the above. Stiles can feel his heart start to beat a little bit faster, can feel his stomach drop just a little. Death bed or conversation opener, time to find out. He eyes the Box, where Hale sits chained to the chair, grinning nonchalantly.

He can see the very moment Hale spots him. Something lights up in the man’s eyes, and he sits up straight. He trails Stiles’ movements, watching hawk-like with a grin that has morphed from lazy to predatory. Stiles’ throat feels thick and clogged up, nervously he attempts to swallow down the barricade that forms but it’s in vain. He walks forward, towards the chair set out for him placed neatly in front of the box, like a principal interviewing a wayward child. Like a Sherriff questioning his troublesome son.

Stiles feels six again- small, and confused. No one dares to tell him what’s happening. Everyone stares at him with thinly veiled pity in their eyes. He feels six again- he’s going to have to figure this one out on his own. He takes his seat on the cold metal chair and levels his line of vision with Hale's own.

“Well,” Stiles clears his throat, “Here I am.”

“Here you are indeed, Mr. Stilinski,” Hale grins, “Pleasure to meet you. Shall we begin then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. I updated too fast. I was saving this for next week but then j got so fidgity and bored and I've been stuck on bed so I thought hell, I'll just upload it! I kept trying to refine it but I think I was making it worse so. Also, fun fact about my sickness right now; my skin is so sensitive the wind hurt me. What the hell man?


	3. Matters of Buttercups, Anger Issues and Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song mentioned here- Sinnerman by Nina Simone- is actually amazing and unlike anything I've heard before. I advise everyone to at least check it out. Nina has one of the most amazing voices.

**Three**

  
**Matters of Buttercups, Anger Issues and Sabrina the Teenage Witch.**

_(Song; Sinnerman- Nina Simone)_

* * *

He’s in a cage, he can’t hurt you. He’s in a cage. He can’t hurt you. He’s in a cage, like that lion- the one who reared its head and snarled and roared, and you hid behind dad’s pant leg and when he reached down to pat your head, he whispered, _“She’s in a cage, Stiles, she can’t hurt you.”_

 _He’s in a cage_ , Stiles reasoned with himself, _He can’t hurt you_. He forces himself to pull a tight lipped smile, watching the man’s reaction to it. Derek Hale’s eyes follow the line of Stiles’ lips as it curls up in the corners. Besides the slow movement of his gaze, his facial expression remains the same; slightly smug, with a hint of amusement. This whole situation is clearly playing right into his hand, he clearly has some ace up his sleeve. _Games_ , Stiles raises a deft eyebrow, _he can do games_.

Hale strains forward, body aching against the chains till Stiles can imagine the red welts forming in his skin, cutting through, leaving it’s mark. Hale seems unbothered, leaning forward as much as his bindings will let him, as though head desperate to get a close look at Stiles. There are chains winding across his torso, cuffs tight against his wrists, shackles on his ankles pinning him to the chair. Stiles keeps his rigid posture, careful not to wince or look away.

 _Animals_ , he remembers the sweet zookeeper informing him as she knelt down beside his tiny frame, _can smell fear_.

“So tell me about the Dance with wolves,” Stiles asks, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees.

He was debriefed during the ride here, but he knows that he knows far too little. Hale has all the trumps; if he knows more than Stiles does, that means Stiles is the lesser. There’s nothing Stiles has to offer, nothing to use as leverage. Hale nods solemnly.

“What if you let me out of this... _box_...and maybe I can look at what you lot have come up with,” he says, straining against his chains.

It almost looks feral- the way he’s bound up with chains that stretch against his chest. There’s something so innately animalistic about it.

“No,” Stiles leans back, “No more conditions. I’m here, you’re here. Tell me about the Dance with wolves.”

Hale falls back on his chair, the action so sudden that Stiles can keep his heart skip a beat the second the man thuds against the metal back. Hale’s lips twitch, eyes hooded as he watches Stiles.

“Dance with wolves was a book, written by Michael Blake. Then a movie, with Kevin Costner,” Hale smiles, “It was critically acclaimed, but I’m not a big fan. I find it...rather simplistic. But, I think you’re referring to the Dance of the Wolves. A ritual, am I right?”

Stiles bristles; one point to Hale.

“Dance of the Wolves. Semantics.”

“Oh, hardly,” Hale shakes his head, his voice smooth and rich, “If you go ask the coven what they think of _Dance with Wolves_ as opposed to _Dance of the Wolves_ , I imagine they’d simply give you a long winded and frankly tiresome lecture about white washing and then send you on your way.”

“I don’t imagine they are wrong,” Stiles raises an eyebrow, “With the whitewashing, that is. Tell me about Dance _of_ the Wolves.”

Hale sighs, “Everything you need to know about the ritual is written somewhere in that site that I am almost positive the pretty little red head has already found. You need to ask me the right questions, Agent.”

“I need to ask you the right questions?”

“Yes,” Hale groans softly, “Ask me the right questions.”

Stiles sighs, crossing his legs one over the other and leaning back in his seat, “Here’s the thing, I don’t actually have to be here. At all, really. I’m not legally required to be here. Not a part of my job description. So the way I see it, either you tell me what you’ve come here to tell, or I walk away, and you can kiss daylight good bye because from what I hear, the ditches in Guantanamo tend to be a little dark and grave like.”

Hale’s eyebrows furrow, smile unwavering, tone light, voice dancing through Stiles’ ears, “Ask me about the coven.”

“The coven?”

“Yes. The coven. Witches are most often than not...pack creatures. Pack mentality is common- not for the purpose of family, _no_ , but for power. There is power is people, power in the multitudes. Witches move in packs- _covens_. To pull off such a ritual, one would need a rather large coven to garner energy from. I suggest you look into a lovely little woman named Willow Havengrave,” Hale muses, “I believe, if you check the security feed from the fresh produce store from six days ago at precisely twelve fifteen in the morning, you will see our little local witch hauling a rather suspicious amount of buttercups and rye .”

“Buying buttercups in bulk isn’t illegal,” Stiles scoffs.

“Buying buttercups in bulk isn’t illegal, no,” Hale smiles viciously, “But I imagine using it to kill people is. Then again, I’ve never been too good with the law.”

“And why do you know this?”

“Pardon?”

“ _Why_ do you know what the fresh produce store security feeds show?” Stiles frowns, “ _Why_ do you know who Willow Havengrave is? _Why_ do you know any of this?”

“Questioning my methods or means,” Hale tilts his head to the side slowly, “while bold, isn’t going to actually help you.”

“I’m not asking you for what will help me. I’m asking you, why do you know this?”

“You’ll never know what you want to know until you ask the right questions.”

“Well that’s a pity,” Stiles spits, “But till I figure them out, you can do be a favour and answer the ones I’m asking. Why do you know this?”

“I know things, so many things, beyond your understanding,” his voice grows deeper and louder, no longer smooth as it was before but rough and dry like chalk against gravel, “Beyond anybody’s understanding. You all think you know, so goddamn much, but you don’t. You’re in the dark, _Agent_. I can answer all your questions, but it will do absolutely nothing for you. Do you want to know what I know?”

He’s straining against his chains again, shoulders curling forward and rolling back as though he is trying to crawl right out of the shackles that hold him down, “Do you want to know what I know, Agent? I know your how fast your heart is beating- like a rabbit in the face of a wolf. I know there’s sweat trickling down the back of your neck, I know you’ve been biting your lip. I can smell the blood on the cracks too small for you to even see. I know what every single other Agent is doing right now- they are breathing so fast, so shallow; terrified. They should be. Their blood should run cold with it, with their fear. I can hear that too; the way their blood pumps and hearts beat. And that _loud_ _mouth_ Agent Whittemore- I can hear every stupid little thing he says. Oh, I know him. I know everyone here- can pick them out in a crowded room ever so easily. I know who you are too, even if you don’t.”

The chains creak, threating to give away. Stiles can feel his heartbeat quicken. He swallows thickly, trying to force his pulse to slow down, trying to desperately force his body to not give in. Hale smiles wide; perfect white teeth shining in the bright white lights that glare down at him. Predatory. Ruthless. Maniacal. His eyes are ringed with a sharp, electric blue as pure euphoria dances across them.

“I know,” Hale breathes out heavily, panting with the efforts and fighting against his bindings, “I know you, Stiles. I know everyone here.”

Stiles swallows, forcing his voice to be anything but a meek whisper, “You know what I know?”

Hale’s nostrils flare, the sweat sheen on his forehead glistening. He raises a deft eyebrow; continue. 

“I know what I _see_ ,” Stiles continues, voice even in a matter of fact tone, “And I see a man in a cage. I see a man, in a cage, at the mercy of the people in this room. I see a scared man, so much fear in his eyes, so much doubt. He’s unsure of what lies ahead for him, of what has become of his life. He’s in the den of lions, in the very institution he worked against, and I know it’s because he needs help. I see a man who never learnt how to ask for help. I see a man so detached from humanity, so detached from morality that he’s barely a man anymore. Tipped over as men often are; driven insane by tragedy, then once again by power."

Stiles rises to his feet, kicking his chair back as he does so. He walks fluidly towards the Box, where Hale twists in his chair. The chains creak painfully, his heartbeat does not hitch. Stiles breathes in, steadying himself.

“I see an arrogant man. So sure of his own power. So desperate to hold that power, even when his tied, _bound_ to a chair. I can see a man who never learnt to say please. Or thank you, or sorry. I see a man, in a cage, chained up like an animal,” Stiles slams his hand against the glass wall- palms flat, fingers spread-, watching the way Hale reels back at the force, “You know what I see, Mr. Hale? I see a cornered animal, in a cage, full of fear. Scared. Lonely. He can’t hurt me. I see a man, so arrogant, so greedy for power, that I _fear_. Not him, but I fear that he’s given too much away.”

He turns briskly, stalking away from the Box. There’s silence as he walks away, and when he nears the corner that leads to the Comms room he hears Hale snarl. The sound rips through the room, so unhinged and savage. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms rise in attention as a cold shiver runs through his body, curling around his heart and kick starting it back to his rapid rabbit pace.

Just as he turns, he steals one more glance and the ravenous man. Hale sits, slouching in his chair, smirking. But the heavy rise and fall of his chest is a bullet hole through his poker face; _impasse_.

Stiles slams the door to the Comms room shut, glaring at the floor. He looks up sharply, at the sea of unfamiliar faces who blink soundlessly back at him. Like owls in a cartoon, with large curious eyes that do nothing but blink, _blink_ , _blink_.

“Debrief me,” Stiles demands, “Properly this time.”

The occupants of the room stare back at him, wordlessly. There’s a small made Asian woman, her jet black hair neatly framing her face as she frowns, eyes set in shock rather than in fear or wonderment. Beside her stands a man, one hand resting lightly on his laptop keyboard and the other limply by his side. The woman next to him, Stiles notes, is the _pretty_ _red_ _head_. Her face is set tight, determined, eyebrows pinched together. She’s a picture of poise and grace; hair neatly tied up, shirt crisp, heels tall enough to give her a commanding height but short enough to remain practical. Agent Whittemore stands beside her, eyes trained on the screen that shows a panting Derek Hale.

“Debrief me!” Stiles yells, slamming his hand down on to the table beside him.

The red head purses her lips together, “Not...not here. If Hale is somehow telling the truth, then not where he can hear us.”

She stalks forward, manicured nails gripping Stiles’ forearm. One last stray glance at the screen; Hale smiles knowingly, but his smile is all wrong. It’s soft, relaxed, his eyes have slipped shut. The shiver returns and runs up Stiles’ body through his blood and settles deep in his bones.

* * *

  
The Point Chaud Cafe and Crêpes is an unsuspecting little Italian joint off 11th Street, peculiarly stuffed in-between two towering buildings. The cafe itself had lived and breathed it’s dues in Washington the way any other had- as a small individual struggling to keep its authenticity amongst the towering structures of capitalism and modern America. It’s patrons opt to take seats by the windows, instead of dashing in and out busily, and casually sip their cooling coffees while contemplating on the various little idiosyncrasies that make their lives their own.

In the far right end of the cafe, flustered and decidedly not concerned with the state of their coffee nor the finer details of their individuality, sits a young boy and girl pouring over myriad of loose sheets and dimly lit laptop screens. Stiles leans back in his chair, pushing his shoulders back and stretching his body in an attempt to work out the knots and kinks that have formed from crouching over the coffee table.

“So the three murders, according to the coroner’s report they all took place within the same twenty four hour window,” Lydia murmurs, “most likely within the same hour itself. According to the report handed in by the Beacon Hills police department, there was one Harry Jackson, a mailman, Andrew Harold, an employee at a DVD rental store, and a Jessica Wheeler, a kindergarten substitute teacher. All three individuals didn’t have much in common, besides the fact that Harry Jackson worked their streets. But Jackson was one of the very few mailmen in the city, I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility of him being the link, but I wouldn’t count on it either.”

Stiles’ frown deepens as his fingers fly across the keyboard rapidly, drawing up various different tabs and side-lining them for future reference. He quirks his bottom lip, tilting his head to the right.

“I’ve managed to translate half of what the site Mr. Hale directed us to says,” he sighs deeply, “But I’m not sure if any of it makes sense.”

Lydia perks up, eyes brightening almost immediately. She leaps out of her seat, hurriedly dragging her chair to Stiles’ side of the table and sitting down where she can wedge her head beside his and stare at his laptop screen.

“Okay, spill.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, and leans slightly to the side to allow her more room, “Dance of the Wolves is a ritual alright. Apparently, it's concerned with ancient magic. Crafted by creating a circle of power. Most of the rituals mentioned in the site speak of a circle of power, from what I gather, the circle of power is created when many witches, all of one coven, sit in a giant circle together and hold hands like it’s kindergarten. However, the circle of power isn’t the only thing necessary to complete the ritual. It’s necessary, but not sufficient.”

“I’m guessing this is where the buttercups come in,” Lydia squints at the paper laid beside his laptop.

The paper is a mess- illegible scribbles detailing vague translations, all dotted and garnished with exclamation points and question marks of varying boldness and sizes. A few scribbles have been turned to a school of badly drawn fish on the left hand corner of the page, and beside them a nineties rendition of the letter _S_ drawn by connecting jagged lines. Stiles grins sheepishly and drags the offending paper closer to himself.

“Yeah. You need a shit ton of buttercups, a vial of human blood, and the hair of an Alpha wolf.”

“How does one tell the Alpha wolf apart from the others?”

“The Alpha is the one who pisses in a circle,” Stiles nods.

“So they rip out the hairs of an excreting animal?”

Stiles glances at the red head whose face is scrunched up in disgust, “With all due respect, Agent, they also some how procured a vial of human blood. And most likely murdered three people. Excreting animals seems to be the least of their worries.”

Lydia shrugs, “Murder is one thing. Animal waste is a whole other. Does it elaborate on the buttercups? Or the rye?”

“The buttercups, yeah. It’s says here that it has to be some specific type of buttercups, any old buttercup won’t do. _Aconitum_ _lycotonum_.”

“Nothing on the rye?”

“Nothing. In Latin, rye is typically known as _siligo_ , or the winter wheat, due to its tendency to be grown as a forage or cover crop. I’ve searched every form of the word, including possible translations and formations of the word. Nothing.”

“I don’t understand why Hale would drop something like that on us, if it’s ultimately useless,” Lydia whispers.

She reaches down into her purse and pulls out her phone. After a series of tapping she raises it to her ear, still frowning deep in thought.

“Danny, it’s Lydia. Find out what you can about _Aconitum_ _lycotonum_ , it’s a type of buttercup. I presume that’s it’s scientific name. And while your at it, find out what you can about rye. Yes Danny, _rye_. Like the wheat. What other kind of rye is there?” Lydia sighs, “Forgot I asked. I’m hanging up now.”

Stiles smiles, raising his eyebrow in a silent question.

“Danny is holed up in the Black Site, it doesn’t do well for one’s mind. Trust me. Oh and I haven’t said it yet; welcome to the team,” Lydia smiles back, face clouded with weariness.

“Thanks,” Stiles responds, “Though I don’t think I had much of a choice.”

“When does one ever, in this line of work?” Lydia laughs airily, “Have you managed to translate as to what the ritual hopes to achieve?”

“That’s where it gets tricky. I’m trying to navigate through the...mess of words here. Some of it chalks up to absolute nonsense.”

“Yeah well, I think we might be dealing with people who claim to be witches, Stiles. Everything from here on now is absolute and utter nonsense.”

“What about the Dawson Warehouse case?”

“What?”

“The Dawson Warehouse case?” Stiles repeats, leaning over to grab a file at the other end of the table, “Over here it says that Hale turned himself to the Belleville PD, claiming he knew something about the Dawson Warehouse case.”

Lydia frowns, snatching the case file out of Stiles’ hands and rifles through its contents, “That case is old. Like weeks old. And a complete waste of time- most of the blood belonged to dogs.”

“Why did Hale claim to know something about an old, useless case?”

“To get their attention? Look, the Belleville PD still think there’s more to the case. It’s a media landmine, so they are going to milk it. But from what I can tell, it’s a dead end. Hale probably wanted their attention- and they gave it to him.”

Stiles sighs, “Dead end it is, then.”

The darkness of eve falls down on Washington, over her skyscrapers and large towering bank buildings. Over Abraham Lincoln who sits stoically in his throne, stone faced. Over the large gardens and small carts. Over running bodies and whirring cars that do not seek to end the day till the day ends them. Over her many little art galleries, quaint breweries and The Point Chaud Cafe and Crêpes.

The night is near, but the people of Washington remain alive; moving now more than ever; to second jobs or remaining at their first, wasting away behind cubicles of four walls, or tiring over counters listening to the fiftieth demand that one _must see their manager immediately at all costs._ They cross the road, minds wondering over to the possibilities of wild nights out on the _raz_ , of meeting up with friends or hiding away in the comfort of their own homes with an old sitcom playing as background music while they pour over more work, more papers, more forms, more dimly lit laptop screens and pointless customer demands.

The pair at Point Chaud keep their minds glued to all matters of buttercups, criminals and archaic Latin. Lydia rises from her seat, gently whispering in Stiles’ ear,  
“Do you want something to eat?”

He looks up, blinking the bleariness away, “Coffee.”

Lydia nods knowingly, then jerks her head to the phone that rests on the table top, “If Danny rings, answer.”

Stiles nods an affirmative. He pours over his work, typing furiously. The more he uncovers, the more confused he gets. None of it makes sense, but maybe none of it’s supposed to. He groans, running his hand over his face. Sighing, he cranes his head to find Lydia. Maybe she can make sense of this.

The cafe is not filled, not busy, not bustling with people, but it’s not entirely empty either. A few couples sit beside the large windows, admiring the streets outside and the view of the pink sky that melts into shades of orange. A teenager crouches over stacks of books, worriedly chewing at her lower lip as she flips earnestly through the pages, so fast Stiles briefly worries that she may end up tearing it. A fair man with curly hair sits, hands cradling a two month old _The Economist_ in front of his face, coffee cooling in front of him, untouched. Stiles stiffens. He recognizes that posture, the way the magazine is ever so carefully held to cover his features. Those lean fingers that curl over the magazine cover. The tufts of silky hair that peaks from above the reading material.

The sound of a mug being placed harshly in front of him breaks his reverie. 

“You found anything?”

“More than I’d like,” Stiles sighs, “The Dance of the Wolves doesn’t just _need_ power. It’s a ritual _of_ power. If a coven were to perform this ritual successfully, they’d be drawing energy from _lupi_ _hominum_...or _lupi_ \- or...wolves.”

“A very literal title then,” Lydia muses, “They garner energy from wolves. Dance of the Wolves.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, “Hey, has that man always been there?”

Stiles jerks his head towards the fair haired man. Lydia frowns, and reaches down into her purses. She fishes out a little compact mirror and pops it open, pointing it to the direction of Stiles gesture and frowns.

“Firstly, _subtle_ ,” she rolls her eyes, “How are you an FBI agent? Secondly, I don’t think so. He came back a while back. I noticed him, he was cute. Why? Has he been following us?”

The alertness in her voice is clear. Stiles shakes his head, negative.

“No I just bumped into him earlier at the Gallery Place station, seemed strange to see him again,” he shrugs.

“Gallery place isn’t far from here, you’re being paranoid,” Lydia tuts.

“Working with a criminal does that to you, I’ve heard.”

“Tell me more about the Dance of the Wolves,” she sips her iced latte, attention still fiches on the fair hosted man's reflection on her little mirror.

The phone rings, bouncing up and down ever so slightly as it vibrates along the table top. Lydia tears her attention away from his reflection, looking down at her phone. The caller ID flashes Agent Mahealani- BS. Stiles smiles gently,  
“Agent Mahealani? Should we be worried?”

“It's just Danny,” she shakes her head.

“Danny BS? Danny Bullshit?”

“Danny Black Site,” Lydia says in a hushed whisper.

“How many Dannys do you know?” Stiles stares ridiculously at the girl, “Danny Phantom? Danny Darko?”

“That's Donny,” Lydia snaps, picking up the phone, “Lydia. What have you got, Mahealani? ...Wait wolf? Hold on, _wait_.”

She puts the phone in speaker, raising it near Stiles ear.

“Isn’t this sensitive information?” Stiles frowns.

“It’s witches, Stiles,” Lydia rolls her eyes, “People are going to think we’re fans of Sabrina the teenage witch, not that we are recreating the Salem witch hunts. Danny, speak to us.”

“Right,” Danny smooth voice filters through the speaker, still maintaining its ever present joyfully, teasing lilt despite the strange circumstances, “Hey, Stiles. So _aconitum_ _lycotonum_? It’s better known as Wolfsbane, a little flower that’s seemingly harmless, but as long as we’re talking myths and witches; Wolfsbane is an extremely dangerous substance to one little mythical party known as werewolves."

"Hold on," Stiles frowns, grasping at his paper of scribbles and fish, " _Lupi_ _Hominum_. Wolf human. Or better known in lore as _werewolves._ "

"I don't completely follow, but it gets more interesting," Danny continues, "Yukimura called the Beacon Hills PD, and found out that the BH Fresh Produce store did call in a robbery. One big ass bag of Wolfsbane and rye. By one Jane Meyers.”

“Jane Meyers. Not Willow whatever the name was,” Lydia notes.

“Willow Havengrave. According to the local police, Jane likes to go by the name Willow. I’m guessing it’s her witch name or something.”

“Brilliant. So we have our local Sabrina in custody? All we have to do is question her?”

“Yeah about that,” Danny’s voice crackles through the speaker, “She’s not in custody. The locals never got to her; in fact, Jane Meyers is officially a missing persons report.”

* * *

  
Her heels dig into the forest floor, struggling to keep her body upright. Her mind is turning- spinning out of control. There are people everywhere, screaming. Wailing. Crying. Bleeding. Her claws dig into her skin, struggling to keep her composure. It’s too hard- there are too many people. Too much smoke. Her body seizes up in pain and she screams. The scream breaks out from deep within her, tearing through her body to escape. It’s like she’s back there all over again; weak, writhing on the floor with a thousand people staring at her and whispering,  
_“Why is she like this?”_  
_“What’s happening to her?”_  
_“Is she possessed?”_

She’s sixteen, writhing on the floor again. No, her mind screams, claws dig further into the thick flesh of her thighs, she’s stronger now. Better. Tougher. She can withstand this. There’s so much smoke, so many people. Too many eyes, blearily staring at her, jeering, watching, bleeding. He clambers forward, mist swirling between his legs and up his body. She seizes up in pain once more; teeth clamping down tightly to hold back her screams, toes curling inwards, head thrown back violently. She collapses down on to the forest floor, eyes trained upwards at the man moving laboriously towards her fallen body.

“Monster,” he sluggishly whispers, eyes unfocused.

“I killed you,” she sneers, “You’re not real. I killed you. I killed all of you.”

“This isn’t a safe little warehouse no more, is it?” the man grins, “You don’t look so scary now, monster.”

She can feel the scream pierce through her body, “I killed you. Saw you writhe against your chair then I killed you!”

The man grins, “Not so powerful now are you? Now, where is your alpha?”

“I killed you!” she screams, “Stop this. Stop this!”

Her body twists, muscles aching, every fibre in her body set aflame. Her mind grows sluggish. There are people everywhere, moving just a little too fast for her to see. The trees dance merrily around her, the man grins over her.

“Tell me. You don’t want to see me when I don’t get what I want, monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s what I did today; finished up this chapter, cursed Microsoft word's phone app and watched iron man because who doesn’t want to cry while remembering their child hood hero is dead, amirite girlypops? Anyway, thank you so much for all the comments, I know I don’t reply to all because I’m currently juggling studying, procrastinating and writing, but I read each and every one and they make me preen like a fat little orange tabby cat getting scratched behind the ears! What a weird analogy!!


	4. The Complications of Contractual, Conditional Assistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm much better now health wise (read; on meds that make me feel gr8) thank you so much for all your kind comments ( ; - ;)

**Four**

**The Complications of Contractual, Conditional Assistance.**

_(Song; Under Pressure- Queen ft. David Bowie)_

* * *

The round table of hell hounds. A circle of pure evil. The devil in his many forms seated in each chair, gathered around the deep mahogany table. The Federal Bureau's seal glistens at the front of the room. Hubris and its many faces all gathered, eyes trained accusatorily at each other.

“ _Witches_ , Chris? _Really_?” Director of Counterintelligence Panabaker scoffs, “I expected more from you.”

“The Defence Intelligence Agency has always been keeping track of Supernatural creatures,” Harold scoffs.

“Enough with the Area 51 bullshit, Wallace,” Director of the National Clandestine Services Blake groans, “Your hyperactive theories are making us a laughing stock!”

“Area 51 is for Aliens, Blake,” Harold seethes.

“Witches, Aliens,” Panabaker groans dramatically, “What’s the bloody difference?”

“The difference is that one lives on Mars, and the other is a credible threat from right among us,” Director of the Central Intelligence Agency Keen sighs, “An imminent threat at that, if anything Hale says is valid.”

“Because the wisest route to take is one a criminal points us to,” Panabaker slams her hand down on the table, “That, Ladies and Gents is exactly how America fights crime.”

“Oh, it’s not as unheard of as it seems,” Director of National Security Cooper rolls his eyes painfully so, “Grow up Panabaker. We’ve done it countless times before. With terrorists at that. Come on, so Hale robs a few companies, kills a few people? America is all about give and take, people. _That’s_ how we fight crime.”

“This is all preposterous,” Blake shakes her head, “You know, Argent, if you and Hale don’t come back with Witches in tow-,”

“You’ll what? Fire him?” the voice booms from the head of the table.

Granted, the table is round, but Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Victoria Wright can command the head seat from wherever and whenever she wants, and her gaze pierces through the directors as she carefully crosses her arms over her chest. The tension is too thick to cut with just a knife.

“That’s not your call to make, Blake,” she frowns, “If Argent doesn’t come back with Witches on sticks, then I’ll decide what happens to him and his team.”

“This decision isn’t _entirely_ your own,” Director of National Intelligence Bourne purses her lips together, “We must assess if this is in the countries best interests- or if it’s merely a hoax.”

“This is credible information,” Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Argent sighs, straightening from where he had slouched deep into his seat, “We have solid leads that take us all the way down to Beacon Hills. Let us test this case, see if there are so called Supernatural Entities, ma’am.”

“And _I’m_ telling you, Argent,” Harold waves his accusatory finger wildly, “The Defence Intelligence Agency already has perfectly credible, _perfectly_ valid data that proves that these supernatural entities, as you call them, are a valid and an imminent threat! We must protect the citizens of our country, on our soil, before these creatures can cause any more trouble or else it’ll be an oversight on our part! And an oversight I’m not willing to take the blame for!”

“If we move forward in this mission,” Cooper states, tone slow and careful; calculated, “We must cover all our bases.”

“Noted,” Argent nods, “But Hale has demands of his own.”

“And why would be answer to any of his demands? Didn’t you already bend to his will by giving him that Agent?” Blake scoffs.

“Hale will not cooperate without his demands being met. I’m sure he’s willing to stick it out in Guantanamo rather than work with us on a one sided arrangement,” Argent leans forward, placing his elbows against the table.

“Can the FBI _really_ handle a case like this? I suggest we reroute this mission, hand it over to the CIA,” Keen nods grimly, “It’s the best course of action.”

“Definitely not!” Wright scoffs, “Argent and his men can handle this perfectly well without any of your assistance, Rudolf.”

“I wish to offer my services either way,” Rudolf Keen raises a deft eyebrow, “Only to help. We _are_ , after all, on the same team.”

“I would rather suggest we have an agent representing the Defence Intelligence Agency,” Cooper interjects, “After all, they do have a system already in place that have agents well versed in all things... _supernatural_.”

Wallace Harold preens, nodding smugly.

“I’ve never seen someone so _happy_ that our country _is_ in imminent danger,” Panabaker sneers, “I personally insist on a tracking chip in Hale. One of our best. I would like to know where he is at all times.”

“And I insist on a CIA agent operating within this task force,” Keen's voice raises to a challenging tone, “I would like someone _I_ trust explicitly.”

“I see no problem with it,” Bourne shrugs, “One CIA agent, one DIA agent. Checks and Balances.”

“Too many cooks spoil the bloody soup,” Harold rolls his eyes, lurching to a stand in a display of disagreement.

“Save your idioms, Wallace,” Cooper sighs, “I do not think a CIA agent is necessary at this point in time. I suggest we wait on further development to decide that. We cannot be wasting resources, Keen.”

“I strongly believe it is in the best interests of my team if I chose the DIA agent _myself_ ,” Argent huffs, “I would like to remain in charge of the people I’m meant to be in charge of.”

“I see no problem with it,” Harold shrugs, “Take your pick, I’ll send the details of my elite team your way.”

“And what exactly are Hale’s demands? I do not promise that we can agree to every single one of them,” Bourne pries.

“Hale brought with him,” Argent swallows, “An _agreement_.”

He slides the manila envelope to the centre of the table and watches every single eagle eyes follow its movement with barely contained curiosity. Matias Cooper reaches forward and gingerly picks it up.

“We found it in his coat jacket,” Argent continues, “Its a detailed list of his demands.”

“Its a _contract_ ,” Cooper raises his eyebrows in amusement as he examines the offending document, “This is ridiculous. He drafted this himself?”

Argent shrugs, “That I am not sure of, Sir.”

Cooper slides the envelope back to Chris, “Summarize it.”

“We have taken the liberty of briefing it already sir. It’s contents are as follows; two of his own persons, to ensure his own safety,” Argent begins.

“ _Two_? Ridiculous. None.”

“I thought you said it is a compromise, Cooper,” Bourne rolls her eyes, “ _One_. The _least_ offensive one, if you don’t mind, Argent.”

“That would be,” Argent flips through the contact, “Boyd. Ex-navy. Dishonarary discharge for the slaughter of ten soldiers- five of an enemy camp, and five of our own men. He’s been working with Hale ever since, and has been a notable part of many of Hale’s criminal endeavours, but his rap sheet consists mostly of offenses outside of murder.”

“This is the... _least_ offensive?” Bourne raises her eyebrow and sighs, “Does he have a last name to go with that?”

“Not sure ma’am. I think it’s just Boyd. Like _Prince_ , or _Madonna_.”

“Let the man finish reading the demands,” Wright interrupts, “Then we can discuss this.”

“Right. Two- _one_ \- of his own persons, to ensure his own safety when conducting relevant missions,” Argent begins again.

* * *

  
_Memory_ , Stiles knows, _takes a lot of poetic license_. It’s unrealistic, it bends and shapes the truth till it’s no longer the situation in its actuality but rather a version of it that one wants to remember, yearns to remember. The cavern of his mind makes all the memories of Beacon Hills dimly lit. The dark shoddy lighting so crucial to the way the scenes of his childhood in the small but homely town play out. The way they unfold moment by moment, softly till its crescendo of crashing sounds and screams.

The day he left Beacon Hills will live on with him for the rest of his life, the day he thought he left the place for good. Leaving Beacon Hills was easy- leaving the last shards of his father was hard. _Is_ hard. _Will always be_ hard.

It will always be hard to leave behind what his father had created, to leave behind the jovial faces that saw his father and remembered his father, the same faces that could tell him stories of his father till he felt like he was reliving it all over again, like his father was there with him.

Stiles swallows thickly, shoving any item of clothing he can get his hands on into a small duffle bag that pitifully claims loyalty to the Berkeley Lacrosse Team. Absentmindedly, he wonders what it will be like to step back into the town where he spent all of his formative years running through the woods with his mother in tow, where she would pick him up with ease and spin him around.

Where his father routinely pulled out the grill every Sunday, claiming that _the studies linking a good steak to heart problems could stick it where the sun doesn’t shine_.

Where little suburban houses were neatly lined up, friendly neighbours poking their heads out of their homes and waddled over to the Deputy Stilinski's house for burgers and beer.

Where his mother would kiss head forehead before rushing off to save lives, because that’s what she did because _she was amazing and she was everyone’s mother just as much as she was his and her kisses could heal any wounds no matter how big_.

Where his dad would pat his head and tell him that they could watch the Goonies till she came back, _because the Goonies made everything better_. Where young Deputy Stilinski stood up in the middle of the Goonies to answer the insistent phone. Where the phone fell out of his hand and clattered to the floor, where he sets his son down in front of the neighbour’s house, barely offering Mrs. Richards an explanation before hurrying off.

Where the friendly neighbourhood of little suburban houses and tight knit community connections kept his mother’s deaths a secret.

Where the roads were too slippery, and the wheels of the ambulance were not strong enough to save his mother. Where saving a life had taken her own.

Where young Deputy Stilinski buried his wife, then eleven years later young Stiles Stilinski had to bury his father.

Stiles blinks away the tears that are threatening to return. His chest heaves up and down, betraying his mental mantra to keep a straight face, to keep it together because he cannot afford to loosen his hold on his emotions- not even for a moment. He zips his bag shut, furiously rubs his eyes to get rid of any stray signs of emotion before hauling the bag onto his shoulder and storming out of his apartment.

The sticky note on the fridge door informs his flatmate in nearly illegible writing, _“I’ll be back at some point, don’t eat the cheese, it’s mine, and if you finish the milk, replace it asshat.”_

He jogs down the stairs, simultaneously pulling out his phone to inform Lydia that he’s on his way and definitely not bailing on them, even though he’s running late. He flies out of the apartment complex, scanning the road for any cabs coming his way. Seeing none, he turns to briskly run up the road. He slips through the crowd of Washington’s working force. The early morning rush as subsided, but the clock threatened to release the irritable, hungry and rushed lunch hour horde.

Tourists stand in awe around him like blockades, watching large skyscrapers do nothing but stand in one place and imprison depressed, tired workers. They point in fascination at cabs that zoom past and at entertainers on the streets juggling soul crushing debt, wavering dignity, the American dream and apples for their amusement.

Stiles jogs down the stairs to the subway, weaving through the sparse littering of people. The train sings it’s arrival, and Stiles hops on board, mindfully minding the gap. He throws himself down and empty blue bench, sighing and slouching down. People filter into the train car, their movements rendered sluggish by the afternoon heat and the promise of oncoming lunch. The train lurches to a start, the sweet tinny voice filtering through the speakers announcing their destinations.

There aren’t many people in the train car, so it’s not very hard to spot him. His nonchalant posture and tufts of soft hazel coloured hair are unmistakable. Stiles’ hackles rise. He gets up, moving to stand by the strange man.

“Are you following me?” he spits.

The man startles, looking up, “I’m sorry?”

“Are you following me?” Stiles repeats, “Because I see you _everywhere_. At the train station, at the café. Here”

“Well, that’s just two places, given that if I got on the train I’d have to be at the train station at some point,” the man shrugs, “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I mean, sure, but the thing is, I didn’t come up to you and demand to know what your intentions were in boarding a public train.”

Stiles sighs, shoulders dropping down in defeat, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m just...my mind is all over the place.”

The man frowns, “Its fine. Can’t say it’s been great to be accused of stalking, but it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s happened. Might even be very Nicholas Sparks. Or maybe Hallmark.”

Stiles chuckles, “Hallmark? Seriously?”

“You’re right,” the man nods solemnly, “Its not Christmas yet, so that rules out the Hallmark channel.”

Stiles breathes out an airy laugh, “Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Its fine really,” the man smiles, “Sit down. Don’t sweat it. It’s all going to be just another story to tell at parties, you’re doing me a favour.”

Stiles lowers himself down onto the seat beside the man. There are stranger things in life, he supposes. Stranger encounters- for one, there are _witches_. Secondly, there’s a mass murder who came from the same small little town that he did, and somehow that mass murderer is in his life once again. Everything’s either a coincidence or complete happenstance. _To differentiate between the two_ , Stiles sighs inwardly, _is going to be difficult, given his new tense relationship with absolute paranoia._

The trains automated voice joyfully announces, “Next stop, Gallery Place, Chinatown. Gallery Place, Chinatown.”

* * *

  
The sound of air releasing with a _hiss_ from the vacuum it was previously trapped in echoes around the room as the door to the Box opens systematically. The US Marshalls steady their guns; a ring of barrels facing Hale, ready to be fired at command. Argent stands a few feet away from the man, assessing his every move, cataloguing his every glance.

For a man who had been trapped in a box for over a day, Hale looks fresh. His beard isn’t as clean cut as when he arrived, his dark hair a tad bit ruffled as per his vicious, violent and erratic movements, his shirt is crumpled in the places the chains cling to, his smile - however- is the same. _Smug_.

Argent wants nothing but to wipe it clean off his face. He can’t. He knows this. Doesn’t mean he can’t think about it internally, in graphic detail, so that it feels vaguely real. Hale steps out of the box, chains dragging against the floor with a painstaking sound. The man winces, glaring at the offending items as though he had finally noticed them as bothersome, despite having been bound by them against a cold metal chair for a good twenty four hours or more.

Argent clears his throat, “Here’s where we stand as per your demands. This is non-negotiable, either you accept it, or take your chances in prison.”

Hale tilts his head, letting his eyes slip down to a close. He breathes in heavily, nostrils flaring.

“Continue,” he says, opening his eyes and steadying his gaze.

“Only answer yes or no. Any wise cracks, and we will not hesitate to open fire. You will be permitted one man of our choosing to accompany you through these missions. You will be granted protection from our agents during these missions. If your accomplice harms or shows the intent to harm any civilian or agent we will not hesitate to open fire. If your accomplice breaks a direct order, we will not hesitate to open fire. If your accomplice attempts to escape with you, we will not hesitate to open fire. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You will not be granted immunity until you have proven your intel and assistance worthy of such a condition. Your accomplice will not be granted immunity under any circumstance. If your assistance proves unworthy of continuation, you and your accomplice will be transported immediately to a state prison of our choice after which the details of your trial will be discussed. If you and your accomplice attempt to create any disturbance during your transport to prison, we will not hesitate to open fire. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You will not be permitted to access classified information. The Agents of this team will be your superior officers, you will answer to every one of them. You may not disobey their orders. If you do disobey a direct order, this agreement will be held at stalemate, and you will be detained in a holding position of our choice till further decisions are made. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“The agents on this team are as follows; Agent Jackson Whittemore, Agent Kira Yukimura, Agent Danny Mahealani, Agent Lydia Martin, Agent Stiles Stilinski and an Agent as permitted by the Defence Intelligence Agency. And myself. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“If any classified information pertaining to FBI missions or any other information pertaining to any other service of protection of the United States of America is leaked to the public or to any hostile source, you will be detained, till further information can be gathered. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“A tracking chip will be placed on your body. This chip must remain in your body. If this chip is removed, broken or set to show a false location by you or any of your accomplices doings, you will be detained. Depending on the situation, we will not hesitate to open fire. The manhunt will be massive. You will immediately be treated as hostile. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Finally, as per your demands; You will be allowed to walk freely, however you must report back to us at any given time you are needed. You will be allowed to speak only to Agent Stilinski, unless said agent is unavailable and the situation is dire. Oh, and you will not be given monentary compensation for any of your efforts in these missions. Do you understand?”

“I don’t need your money, Argent,” Hale laughs heartily.

Guns cock, the Marshalls raise their weapons levelled to Hale’s head.

“Yes or no, Hale?” Argent grunts.

Hale rolls his eyes, “ _Yes_. I understand. Now may I please take a wash?”

“It wasn’t explicitly requested in your contract,” Argent cocks his brow, “So I’ll have to think about it.”

* * *

  
The tarmac is empty, save for the large plane parked right beside him. In the distance he can see three large black SUVs racing down towards them at an alarming speed. He rolls his eyes at the clear show of power. There’s no need to speed, it’s not like there’s a deadline to boarding a private aircraft.

The strange woman in front of him scoffs, aptly reflecting his internal thoughts. She stands with her back to him, shielding him from deducing any of her finer personality traits, but her posture is rigid enough for him to know she has a background in military. Her shoulders are strong, a collection of tightly wound and heavily worked muscles. She must wield a heavy weapon. From what he can see, she’s vaguely concealing three guns on her body right now, and what’s possibly a knife in her boot.

“Posturing,” she derides.

He grunts in affirmative. The US Marshalls beside him glance at him in disapproval, adjusting their hold on their guns. The woman tuts, eyes still focused on the speeding SUVs.

“You aren’t going to shoot him just because he can identify a show of ridiculous power, are you?” she chides.

The US Marshall to his right rolls his eyes, “No, ma’am.”

The woman hums. The SUVs skid to a halt in front of them, tires aching against the gravel of the runway. The doors to the first two vehicles fly open and band of suit clad agents hop out. Chris Argent stands stiffly beside the car, next to an unfamiliar set of face and one lanky, bambi eyed Stiles Stilinski.

The Marshalls rush over from his side towards the last SUV as it’s doors open, revealing a far too cheery, far too pleased Derek Hale.

“Boyd!” the man exclaims.

He grunts in affirmative, as if to say, _yes it is me, Boyd, thank you for noticing._

“Boss.”

“Thank God you are here. My, do I have many tales to tell you,” Derek hastily extends a hand in a gesture of caution towards the band of agents, “None of which are sensitive information, do not fret Chris.”

“You’re doing so well, Hale,” Chris mutters.

Derek grins and strides forward, pulling Boyd into an embrace. Boyd places a strong hand against the man’s back, letting his forehead rest on his shoulder and breathing in his scent.

“Nice to see you’re in one piece,” Boyd whispers at octaves too low for any of the human agents around them.

“Were you worried about me, Boyd?” Derek murmurs, “Touching. Really. You’re a teddy bear, aren’t you? They treated me fine, though they did lock me up in a little box. Didn’t do too well for my sense of smell, no.”

“A box?”

“Yes, Boyd, a box. Have you gotten in contact with the others?”

“Yes Boss, except for Erica, Boss.”

Derek bristles, “Where’s Reyes?”

“Missing, Boss. But-,”

“Alright Hale,” Chris snaps, “Hug time is over, kids.”

Boyd releases his vice like grip on Derek and straightens up, staring into Derek’s eye that widen in barely concealed panic “I’m sure she’s fine, Boss.”

“Team,” Chris continues, “this is Boyd, Derek’s personal bodyguard,” Chris glances at his team momentarily before gesturing towards the strange woman, “And you must be the DIA agent.”

The woman nods, stepping forward, “Agent Allison Valet, Sir.”

Chris nods, “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Valet. Agent Stilinski, Valet- allow me to formally introduce you to the team you will be having the pleasure of working with from now till the end of your days. Meet the FBI’s A- Team; Agents Whittemore, Yukimura, Martin and Mahealani. And of course, meet _person of interest number one_ and the _American Security Branch's newly contracted federal asset_ and his trusty little sidekick, Derek Hale and Mr. Boyd. Now that we’ve all exchanged name tags let’s get ourselves to Beacon Hills and catch some goddamn Witches.”

* * *

  
_(3 weeks prior)_

  
The Caretaker sighed deeply, staring at the broken sign that swung precariously in the wind, eagerly declaring to be Dawson Warehouses. Groaning, he picked up his little briefcase and made his way into the run down eerie building. The vile smell hit his nose almost immediately, and the sight of the dead bodies carpeting the floor second. He raised an adept eyebrow at the state of the place before turning around and beckoning his team to enter.

“Begin the clean up,” he sighed, “You know the drill.”

He strode towards the man on the chair, gently placing his briefcase down on the bloody floor and examined the victim's limp body before him. He opened up the briefcase, laying out his tools to make quick work of rope that bound the man. The body slumped forward, into the Caretaker's outstretched arms. He carefully moved the body off the chair, watching as one of the Clean-up Crew hurried forward and lifted the chair up, leaving with it to dispose of it. The sound of heels clicking against the floor echoed around the warehouse. The Caretaker grimaced.

“ _Erica_ ,” he acknowledged, “You need to stop leaving such abhorrent messes.”

“All the better for you to clean up, my dear,” the woman grinned, display her neat set of sharp canines, “We need his fingers.”

The Caretaker nodded, looking up away from the cold body. He placed the body down, reaching into his briefcase to procure a thin sterilized knife.

“I could always use my claws,” Erica grinned, dropping down on to her knees in front of The Caretaker.

The Caretaker rolled his eyes, “ _Messy_.”

With a few quick swishes the fingers were dismembered. The fair faced man placed it neatly in a little tin box and deposited the box safely in his briefcase. A vexed expression fell on his face,  
“There’s too much blood. I can’t get rid of all of it. I’ve told you to be less messy, Erica.”

“This wasn’t all me!” Erica protests, huffing in indignation.

The Caretaker grunts, running a hand through his flaxen hair, “Yes it was. Give me the rundown.”

Erica pursed her lips for a moment, glaring as The Caretaker rises to his feet and makes a small show of dusting off the grime and blood off his pants, “9 men. This one here is the big money; _Garrison_ _Myers_.”

“Alright ladies,” The Caretaker raised his voice, “Start up the acid bath.”

Erica monetarily frowned, rose to her feet and reached into her pocket. She flipped open her burner phone, staring down at the caller ID for a brief moment, “Don’t eaves drop,” she murmured before walking away further into the warehouse.

She placed the phone against her ear as she walked away, proudly declaring, “Tango Down,” before walking out of earshot.

The Caretaker rolled his eyes and knelt down once more to examine Garrison Myers' lifeless body. Pale eyes started up blankly at him. The putrid smell of acid wafted towards him from the acid bath, and with a groan he pulled his face mask up to shield his mouth and nose. With her tell-tale sound of heels against cement, Erica reproached him with a petulant expression. The Caretaker raised an eyebrow.

“For you,” she grumbled.

The Caretaker placed the phone beside his ear, “Boss.”

“Its time,” the voice said gruffly, “Head to Washington. I’ll meet you there.”

The line clicked and beeped, indicating it to have been cut. The Caretaker huffed, handing the phone back to Erica.

“This is above my pay grade,” he sighed, motioning for the Clean-up crew to take Garrison's body to the bath.

“You ever notice how he never says please?” Erica grumbled, “Like ever. Not once.”

“You never say please either. Or thank you... He says thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I write a new chapter I panic cause I’m not from America! How does America work!! I’ve been using Google maps to verify distances and Point Chaud is actually a real place on 11th street, though I have no idea if it’s nice or what it looks like inside. But Gallery Place is a station to stop at if you want to reach the FBI HQ. Also US government please don’t come for me, I’ve only been doing research about your management systems to write this fic I swear. And yes, I might have snuck in some Spy Movie and Blacklist references in the names of those Directors hehe ;-;  
> I know this isn't the most fun chapter but it's necessary nitty-gritties in order for the story to work smoothly ya know. The next chapter will have the ball rolling once more :)


	5. Werewolves and Magic and Witches, Oh My!

**Five**

  
**Werewolves and Magic and Witches, Oh My!**

  
_(Song; Jungle- X Ambassadors ft. Jamie N Commons)_

* * *

The roots grip his ankles, winding around his feet and up his calves. His breath is laborious- heavy, slow. Stiles pulls at his leg, yanking at the roots that grow and grip his feet tightly. The gun in his hand feels heavy, its weight dragging him down. From the corner of his eyes he can see the others running through the woods, ducking under stray branches that shoot out, grabbing at them.

The root creaks and cracks under his force, and he picks his feet up high, charging through past the ancient trees that seem to wail and bend in an attempt to... _stop_ _him_.

He can’t duck fast enough, he can feel the branches scratch against his pale skin, drawing blood. Beside him, Agent Yukimura pulls out her gun, levelling it north. Her eyes are filled with fear, the grip on her weapon shaking ever so slightly, lips quivering. Their feet move fast, trying to make quick work of escaping the insistent grasp of the roots and vines on the forest bed. The air gets thick as the trees ache upwards, creating a safe umbrella that blocks out the sunlight from filtering in.

Breath heavy, knees weak- Stiles winds around the thick tree barks, body lean enough to dodge unseen branches that seem to have a life of their own. He can see Agent Whittemore just a little ahead of them, gripping his gun tight. He can feel his fear. He can see it in the way the muscles in his back are clenched tight, the way his arms strain to hold the weapon he used to weild like second nature. In fear of what is to come. In fear of what has happened. In fear of the unknown.

Because they do not know- they do not know what they are doing, where they are going, what waits for them. To fear the unknown, right now at this very moment, is to fear everything they thought they knew...and then some.

* * *

  
_(Seven hours ago)_

  
Mrs. Meyers sits stiffly on the edge of her horrendous pink and green couch, raising a little tea cup with shaky fingers to her lips. She drags in a small sip. The tea cup clatters loudly as she places it back down on the fine china saucer that has little pale pink and blue flowers crowning its perimeter. She smiles forcibly, placing her hands palms down on her knees, before nervously clasping them together then changing her mind altogether and letting them fall limply by her side.

Beside her, Mr. Meyers exhales gruffly as he stares up at the overhead fan that spins around and around. The entirety of the living room is decorated in varying shades of green and pink; the cabinets, the lampshades, the peculiar off-set chandelier that holds faux candles. Yukimura sits on the edge of her seat- a nauseating green ottoman with little purple embroidered gardenias trailing along it- while Whittemore sits stiffly on a bright pink loveseat beside her, struggling to keep his eyes facing straight and not rolled far back into his head.

On the little glass table, beside the stacks of outdated newspapers and Cosmopolitan magazines, a little recorder blinks it’s little red bulb to indicate that it’s listening very intently, on the off chance that anyone wants to say anything of importance.

“We told the police everything we know,” Mrs. Meyers says, her voice unsteady, “I don’t understand why we have to go through it all again.”

“Belinda, don’t answer a thing,” Mr. Meyers huffs, “This is absolutely ridiculous.”

“I don’t think you understand, Mr. Meyers,” Agent Yukimura reasons, “We simply want to know whether Jane had have shown any interest in witchcraft, or herbal magic.”

“And I don’t understand what this has to do with our baby!” Mrs. Meyers wails.

“You do realize your daughter’s the prime, and frankly only suspect in a serious robbery, right?” Agent Whittemore rolls his eyes.

“Jane is...has had the tendency to be... _rebellious_ ,” Mr. Meyer breathes in deeply, “As _most_ teenagers do.”

“So she stole a bag of...what was it?” Agent Whittemore picks up the case file off the tea table, feigning curiosity as if he didn’t spend the majority of the flight familiarizing himself with the finer details of the peculiar case, “A bag of _buttercups_. Doesn’t scream Jim Stark to me.”

Mr. Meyers bristles, “Listen, my girl is missing. This is first and foremost a kidnapping!”

“Jane Meyer is twenty years old,” Whittemore shakes her head, “It would technically be an _abduction_.”

“And this is first and foremost a _murder_ case,” Yukimura adds, shooting a look of disbelief at Whittemore’s concern with trivialities before rising to her feet.

“Murder?” Mrs. Meyers gasps.

“We have reason to believe that your daughter is seriously implicated in a series of high profile murders,” Yukimura elaborates, pacing the room in a calm, casual manner as though she isn’t accusing someone of first degree murder and implying a life time in jail.

Mr. Meyers gapes, ceiling fan long forgotten, as he closes and opens his mouth like a fish thrown pitifully on to land. Whittemore furrows his eyebrows in an attempt to keep them from climbing up his forehead. The thick specimen of a woman that is Jane Meyers' mother grabs hastily at a discarded, outdated newspaper and begins to rapidly fan herself. Perspiration dots her forehead and thick forearms, as well as trailing along her sideburns and upper lip.

“Soon enough,” Agent Yukimura continues, “My partner will come here with a warrant legalising the search of your daughter’s room, and the rest of this household. So before that happens, I kindly request that you both tell us _everything_ you know about your daughter’s ties to witchcraft, unless you would like to be held responsible for withholding information from the police- from the _FBI_ \- for a very, very serious crime.”

Jackson twists his lips, _he_ was Yukimura’s partner. The additions to the A-Team were highly unnecessary and now bordering on _confusing_.

“First degree murder’s no joke, I hear,” he grumbles, sinking down deeper into the loveseat with a petulant pout gracing his face.

Mr. Meyers eyes have widened beyond what should be considered humanly possible as he stares at the agents in shock, while his wife, now perspiring through her clothes, grabs her little teacup with her whole palm and chugs down its contents.

“Oh just tell them,” she groans, slapping her husband’s thighs repeatedly, “Tell them Bernard, _tell_ _them_!”

“Jane is....Jane has always been...rather _interested_ in.... witches,” Mr. Meyers sighs, body crumbling in defeat, “She liked nature...and witches...and witch craft. She’d never hurt someone, no. But she associated...wrong crowds. _Bad_ _kids_.”

“Do you have any names?” Whittemore pries.

Mr. Meyers shakes his head pitifully, his burly eyebrows furrowing in thought, “No, no. They all...they all had little strange names. Like names of trees or something- I don’t know. We thought it was childish fun.”

“No we didn’t,” Mrs. Meyers wails, “No she didn’t, Bernard. We knew it was wrong! It was _strange_ , they’d wonder off till god knows what time! _Oh_! I knew it was so wrong! And there was that one girl, _oh_ that one girl.”

Bernard nods earnestly, “This one girl, I know her name. _Rosemary_ _Wanwood_. She was _strange_. She was always telling our Jane to do bad things- always forcing Jane to go out in the dead of night. She thought we didn’t know, but we did. It’s just...how do you stop them? It’s better than drugs, _right_? We thought it was silly Harry Potter nonsense that she would grow out of eventually.”

“ _Oh_! I think I’m going to faint,” Mrs. Meyers wails, “ _Oh_ , Bernard what if she has _killed_ someone? _Oh_!”

“Belinda, stop it,” Mr. Meyers glares, gripping his wife’s arms, “We don’t know much else, we swear. Look, we didn’t know she had done this- anything like this. We were worried sick she was taken...no of course, no...we knew there was a possibility she had run away...Jane likes to get angry and she likes to talk about running away a lot.”

Agent Yukimura nods, picking the recorder off the table, “And when she liked to talk about running away, did she ever mention where she would go?”

Mr. Meyers shakes his head, “She’d just talk about...about going off with that girl, that nasty Rosemary girl.”

A sharp knock breaks through Mrs. Meyers next wail, and the occupants of the horrendous pink and green living room turn sharply to face the door. Jackson carefully moves his hand to place it over his weapon and Yukimura moves towards the door, motioning for The Meyers to remain seated.

“Agent Valet,” a voice says from behind the door.

The pair relax their shoulders, Yukimura moves swiftly to the door, peering for a second through the keyhole for extra precaution before yanking the door open to reveal one Agent Valet standing with her hip cocked to the side and a little white neatly folded peice of paper in hand. She nods at Kira before stepping in, glancing briefly at Jackson then focusing her attention solely on the two Meyers seated sweaty and anxious on the offensive couch.

“Warrant for the search of the Meyers house,” she nods, handing over the document to Mrs. Meyers.

The woman takes it with shaky hands, opening it and skimming over it’s contents as though she has the slightest clue as to what to make of the legal jargon noted on the paper. Before she can look up, men clad in blue uniforms pile into the house, and within mere minutes the lovely little pink and green abode of the Meyers family is turned inside out, upside down.

* * *

  
_(Five hours ago)_

  
Being holed up in the Police Department of Beacon Hills isn’t the best way to spend the evening; not when every single person and object reminds him of his father. Not when the damned _water_ _cooler_ reminds him of his father. Not when the seal on every single case file and the goddamn door reminds him of his father.

Stiles sighs, slouching in his chair front of him. Hale smiles. Stiles pointedly ignores the way the man’s easy-going yet eerie smile seems to spur a series of cold jolts of energy through his body. Hale reaches up to gently scratch at the dark hairs that perfectly outline his face. He alternates from eyeing Stiles and glancing at the wall which Boyd no doubt stands on the other side of, along with a Beacon Hills ginger haired Deputy, in lieu of keeping watch. The Deputy sweats nervously through his shirt- his collar already darkened with sweat, and the rest of his shirt quickly catches up. Boyd spares the man a gentle look, only earning a stutter and a new sheen of sweat as a response.

Being holed up in the Beacon Hills Police Department on _Hale_ _Watch_ _Duty_ while the rest of the team wanders around is decidedly the _worst_ way to spend the evening. Even more so, since Whittemore’s only explanation was, _“He’ll only_ _talk_ _to_ _you,_ _anyway.”_

Stiles was beginning to feel less like a prized pig and more like a scapegoat. Hale tilts his head to the side. In this new environment that contrasts so greatly from his glass box – with its soft wood tables and chairs, and the pale sun light filtering into the room gently- he looks far less like a crazed animal and more like a curious one. 

“Your father worked here didn’t you?”

“Just because I’m stuck on babysitting duty, doesn’t mean I have to actually talk with you,” Stiles rolls his eyes, “Consider yourself on time out, buddy.”

“I remember him, vaguely.”

Stiles bristles, “Time out generally means shut up and sit.”

Hale shrugs, “I’m not one to follow orders.”

“Didn’t Argent say you would be shot if you failed to follow orders?” Stiles sneers.

A laugh break out from the man, and he leans forward, propping his elbows on the table and peering straight through Stiles’ eyes into his very being, “Consider me terrified.”

For a brief moment, he can’t look away. His eyes are locked on Hale’s; on all the strange secrets they hold, the pain, the twisted justifications that turned a young, hopeful boy into a cold blooded criminal. Stiles grunts and tears his eyes away from Hale’s own, opting instead to stare back down at the police report detailing Jane's robbery.

“You don’t like me very much,” Hale muses.

Stiles raises an eyebrow without looking up from the case file in front of him, “What’s to like?”

There’s a beat of silence from the other end of the table, then, “Well, for starters, I’m an excellent cook.”

Stiles looks up, feigning enthusiasm, “Dude, why didn’t you say so? Man, that clears you of all the _killing_ and _murdering_ and general _criminal_ _activities_ you’ve been doing for like twenty years. I stand corrected, you’re optimum friend material.”

Hale smiles tightly. He sighs, looking back up at the wall and then back at Stiles. He tilts his head to the side again, as though he’s trying to figure Stiles out.

“Have any more hidden insight on the case at hand, _Don_ _Corleone_?” Stiles says wryly, “Mr. _I_ _know_ _Everything_.”

Hale let’s out an abrupt breathy chuckle, “I never claimed to know _everything_. No. I know close to nothing, I just know more than most.”

“Cryptic,” Stiles shoots him his best side-eye.

“Staring at that case file won’t help you,” Hale murmurs gently.

“”Why do you always claim to know what will help me?” Stiles groans.

“Look at the site. Did you find anything else on the ritual?”

Stiles frowns, “Plenty. Not that I’d tell you anything.”

“I might have some of that... insight,” Hale raises his brow.

“You’re on the FBI’s most wanted, buddy, you aren’t exactly my partner.”

“Ah, but you can’t deny that we are working together.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it. You think I’m going to tell you something you could very well use to _kill_ _me_? To _kill all of us_?”

Hale’s eyebrows drop down into a frown, and unreadable expression painting his face. Silence falls down between them, unnervingly so. Stiles shifts uncomfortably.

“I would never hurt you, Stiles,” Hale whispers, “I would never let you get hurt.”

The statement makes him reel back, mouth falling open in both shock and confusion. He can feel the hairs on his neck rise up.

“You don’t even know me,” he spits, rerouting his reaction to immediate disgust, “You’re a criminal. You’d hurt anybody.”

Hale shakes his head softly, as though everything about this situations deeply upsets him.

“I would _never_ let _anybody_ hurt you, Stiles. Not even myself,” he sighs, defeated, “Now tell me about the ritual, I’m here in a police station against all odds aren’t I? I let myself be trapped in a strange little box for a whole day, didn’t I? I think I’ve proven beyond doubt that I’m here to help. If not you, then the case.”

Stiles frowns, opting to ignore the cryptic enigmas in Hale’s words.

After several beats of silence, he gives in, “Fine. What do you want to know? It’s a ritual to gather power, apparently from wolves. Which, at first didn’t make sense, because Beacon Hills has a startling lack of wolves. But the ritual most probably, and I know this sounds ludicrous, but it most probably refers to werewolves.”

Hale laughs softly, “Less ludicrous than you’d imagine. And yes, I knew this.”

“If you knew this, maybe you could have just told us, and spared me the massive headache I got from trying to translate a dead language,” Stiles groans in annoyance, “Why are you so cryptic?"

“Well, none of you would have believed me,” Hale shrugs, “And I wanted them to know how smart you are.”

Stiles can feel his face heat up, no doubt running red, and tries to focus his energy on staring pointedly at the other man. He knows this is all a part of the _Hale_ _Criminal_ _Agenda_. He’s read the man’s case file. He’s read extensive notes on him, news paper clippings about his crimes, statements from unknowing accomplices who’ve been caught. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that Stiles is a profiler. It’s what he does.

And even though Hale was never one of his _official_ _case,_ he’s always been curious. The man’s a criminologist's wet dream. He’s all sorts of confusing; no one knows his motives, his alliances, or what his next move will be. No one knows how he knows things, how he does what he does. How he can kill so swiftly without a murder weapon. The only time Hale ever slips into a more humane personality is when he’s using his soft voice and objectively good looks to charm an innocent man or woman into helping him with a notorious crime.

And he’s good at it too; he’ll do it so smoothly that they don’t even know what hit them. They won’t even know what they’ve done. He’s knows the man is ruthless and cunning, but Stiles is smart enough to know exactly where to draw the line between _fascination_ and _foolishness_.

“Cut back on the charm, _Mr_. _Darcy_ , it’s not going to get you any favours. And we believed you about witches, didn’t we?”

Hale shrugs, “Barely. And you need to learn to take compliments.”

“I can take compliments,” Stiles huffs, “Just not from known criminals. So dial it down.”

Hale stares at him sceptically, before shrugging, “If you insist. Though I do enjoy watching you turn all sorts of shades of red. It’s rather fascinating, so I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Stiles twitches his nose in annoyance, “You’re not half as charming as you think you are, Hale. And I’m not some flustered civilian who’s going to help you flee the country.”

“Oh I wouldn’t want to leave the country, no,” Hale says in a matter of fact tone, “I’d much rather be right here.”

As if to emphasize his point, he props his legs up on the table and offers Stiles a lazy grin.

Stiles rolls his eyes once more, “It also says you need buttercups – _Wolfsbane_. Which you obviously already knew, judging by your little piece of fresh produce robbery information.”

Hale nods.

Stiles sighs, “Alright. Here’s where I’m stuck. It says here it’s an _triumvirate_ _of_ _sacrifices_. When the first stage is complete, they must perform a circle of power. Then continue. What do they mean by continue? I know you said this isn’t the last of the killings, but they’ve already killed three people.”

Hale frowns, leaning back in his chair, “A triumvirate of murders. Or rather, a triumvirate of stages.”

“Like a pregnancy?”

Hale shrugs, “Life takes three stages. Why not death? These rituals usually mirror nature, and nature’s course in a more systematic manner.”

“So if a pregnancy is split up into three trimesters, like the triumvirate of stages in the ritual, then these stages must consist of three components as well.”

Stiles face pales as he shoots up from his chair to hastily grab at his phone. He dials the number rapidly, racing out from the room without sparing the confused Boyd nor the equally shocked if not more so Deputy a glance.

“Make sure Big Boss over there doesn’t leave that room, alright?” Stiles says to the Deputy as he races away.

The phone picks up on the third ring, “Stiles, you’re a saviour. I’m elbow deep in the crazy teenage witch's childhood souvenirs, and let me tell you, she’s _not_ an overachiever. You just dragged me away from the first circle of hell.”

“Lydia,” Stiles says hurriedly, his words almost slurring together in his rush, “I figured it out. The murders aren’t over, and Jane is still in Beacon Hills. These rituals- they reflect nature right? Never mind, don’t have the time to go into it. But I think there is going to be nine murders. Nine. It’s this whole thing about a _triumvirate_. And I’m looking at the Beacon Hills Missing Persons bulletin board, and I think I know who are next victim’s are. And-,”

“Stiles, honey,” Lydia interrupts, “Take a deep breath. Slow down. And tell me, because I have no clue what you just said.”

Stiles breathe in deep, trying to drown the panic that slowly builds in his chest, “Willow Havengrave is planning on striking again; with six more victims. She’s still in Beacon Hills, Lydia. My guess? She’s in The Preserve.”

* * *

  
Boyd watches Stiles rush past him, muttering a slew of indecipherable things despite his superior hearing. The Deputy beside him squares up his shoulders and steps into the room where Derek sits, lounging while he watches the Agent run about the station in a frenzied panic. The door swings shut, sealing them off from the outside world.

“I know who you are,” the Deputy whispers.

Derek raises an eyebrow. Sighing, Boyd steps into the room and leans against a wall.The door swings shut, sealing them off from the outside world.

“You’re Derek Hale. You’re that motherfucker who killed his family, aren’t you?” the Deputy clenches his fists.

Derek’s smiles drops immediately and his posture snaps to a stiff unyielding one. He remains silent, eyeing the Deputy as though he’s waiting for his next move. The Deputy rattles on with his new found courage.

“I can’t believe you’d even show your face here again. The fucking nerve,” he spits, “You murdered Beacon Hills most precious people. You’ll never be welcome here. If it weren’t for the _fucking_ _feds_ being all up in our shit, you wouldn’t have lasted a day here.”

Derek cranes his head to the side, and his tongue peaks out to wet his lips slowly.

“You’re a disgrace, you know that? Psychotic. Set your family on fire? _Bastard_ ,” The Deputy snarls, “If it weren’t for the _fucking_ _feds_ I’ve have shot you right here, right now. You killed a Deputy that day, you know that? Of course you know that. Your fucking family, the same family that raised you- and you killed them. You killed one of our own, Hale. You don’t deserve the name, you don’t deserve it. Deputy Hale wore that name like a badge of honour, you disgrace it. If it weren’t for the _fucking_ _feds_ -,”

Derek’s out of his seat and across the room before Boyd has a chance to stop him. He hovers over the smaller man, arm braced against the door, fingers breaking through the wall forming cracks that run up it ever so slightly. His shoulder are tense, posture rigid, nostrils flaring in anger.

“You know, I’ve been visiting Beacon Hills quite often these days. Boyd likes to come with me, we make a trip of it. Even bought a house of my own here in town,” Derek says, tone level and cool, only betrayed by the slight strain in his voice, “If it weren’t for the _fucking_ _feds_ , you’d be dead. Body unidentifiable. Maybe buried by my house, like a little souvenir.”

He steps back, wiping off the scraps of paint and cement that has wedged itself in his nail beds and in his fingers. He looks back at the Deputy who shakes like a leaf, darting his eyes from the towering man in front of him to Boyd who stands by the wall. Boyd can feel his body ache with tension, as he forces his senses to remain alert awaiting for Derek’s next move, readying himself to grab the man before he does something catastrophically brainless like murder a deputy in a police station a few feet away from a federal agent.

The Deputy quickly runs his hands through his ruffled his orange hair, in a flustered attempt to appear presentable.

Derek smiles tight lipped, “And you should really watch your language, Deputy. It isn’t becoming of government officers to swear so... _distastefully_.”

* * *

  
_(Three hours ago)_

  
They’ve been waiting for two hours. Two whole hours of needlessly prying at details of the ritual, of the case, of the robbery. Two whole hours of pointlessly staring at the door that brandishes the name ' _Sherriff_ ' as they wait for the verdict.

“This is ridiculous!” Whittemore groans, rising to his feet, “We have sufficient proof and we don’t needs goddamn warrant to explore the goddamn woods. What the hell is taking so long?”

Agent Valet sighs, “We need resources from the Beacon Hills PD. Specifically, _rangers_. We don’t know those woods, and we don’t have time to search the whole forest.”

“We also don’t have time to sit around idly, twiddling our thumbs,” Whittemore snaps.

Valet remains indifferent to Jackson’s tantrum, choosing instead to lean back against her chair and stare at her phone.  
She shrugs, “I’m not waiting around idly, I’m trying to get in touch with the Beacon Hills Municipal Council. If I can get a hold of the town’s layout then maybe we can figure out Jane’s entry point and work our way from there.”

Danny shrugs too, jerking his head towards Stiles, “We’re trying to decipher more about the ritual.”

“And Kira and I are trying to work our way through this bitch's diary,” Lydia shrugs, and Kira mirrors her actions, “If we can figure out who this Rosemary girl is maybe we can catch another lead in case the woods fall through.”

“Make yourself useful, Whittemore, and go get us some coffee,” Danny chides.

Lydia sighs and looks up from the stacks of paper and leather back books laid out in front of her, “I get it. We all do. We need to move. But logically, we can’t. Not without the Sherriff's approval. And face it, Jackson, the man’s going to have some reservations against approving a witch hunt.”

“We don’t need the rangers or the locals,” Jackson says, eyes widening as he waves wildly at Stiles’ unassuming figure, “We have Agent Stilinski! He grew up here!”

Stiles jerks his head up at the sound of his name, “And I left. Long time ago. Plus, I don’t know those woods. And I’m guessing Willow chose a neat little hidden spot to conduct her witchy murder ritual.”

“ _Please_ call her Jane,” Lydia groans, “I cannot with the witch names! It’s too much!”

Jackson lets a scream of frustration roll out as he kicks the desk to his right, “You grew up next to a _goddamn_ forest and you never traipsed through the _goddamn_ thing?”

“Oh I did,” Stiles shrugs, “I just also always got lost. Without fail. And was rescued. By the rangers. Do you see what I’m getting at here, big guy?”

Jackson groans, running his hand over his face, “ _Seriously_?”

“Hey!” Stiles protests, “It’s not like I could go around playing Dora the Explorer! Most of those woods used to be private property, man! I didn’t get to _bond_ with those woods _intimately_.”

“Give them some time,” Danny sighs, “In the mean time, some coffee would be nice. Something other than shitty police station coffee.”

“This place,” Stiles shakes his head, “It never changes, man. Shitty coffee is a staple in this station.”

Jackson grunts, but stalks outside the station nevertheless. The fresh breeze hits is face and he breathes in deeply, trying to rid himself of the smell of the stuffy police station. He sighs, turning to find himself a coffee shop when he spots the man leaning against the brick wall of the station with his eye closed. Hale.

“ _What_ are you doing _outside_?” Jackson narrows his eyes.

Hale keeps his eyes shut, relaxed, “Agent Whittemore.”

Beside him, Boyd nods an acknowledgement. 

“Do not fret, Agent,” Hale continues, “The nice Deputy Parrish has been keeping a careful watch over me.”

At then mention of his name, the deputy little off to the left of Hale nods, smiling tightly. He pats his gun as if to reassure Jackson that he will indeed shoot the bastard if he tried anything stupid.

“So what?” Jackson raises his eyebrows, “You’re just out here... _meditating_? Breathing in the fresh air?”

“And what is it to you, Agent?” Hale says, tone calm and collected, “What is it to you if I am?”

Jackson shrugs, leaning against the wall still a few feet away from Hale himself, “I’m stuck waiting for some goddamn rangers to give me permission to frolic around in the woods looking for a witch.”

Deputy Parrish frowns in confusion, staring at Jackson like he’d grown two heads and a tail. Jackson waves him off.

“Humour me, Hale.”

Hale pauses in consideration, before continuing, “I suppose I am getting some fresh air, yes. You forget, this is my hometown.”

Jackson nods, “Yeah _yeah_ , the start of your life of on the other side of the track. Your great backstory to crime. Being in the station bringing you sour memories, Hale?”

“I’d watch your tone if I were you, Agent,” Hale tuts.

“Or what? You’ll kill me? And risk getting hauled off to some godforsaken prison? I don’t think so, Hale.”

“There are, ultimately, many ways a man can die.”

“You just threatened an officer of the law.”

“Colour me scared,” Hale shrugs, inhaling deeply, “Either way, I do thoroughly enjoy the fresh air in this town. Reminds me of home. I remember this one time, back when I was much younger, my father took us out to the edge of our Preserve. There was a cliff, the drop was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Granted, I hadn't seen much. It was terrifying. It was the first moment I truly felt fear. I remember standing there, so small I barely reached by father’s knees, wondering what had possessed such a level headed man that he’d willingly dance with death.”

Jackson frowns, “What had?”

“The fresh air. He said, and I’ll never forget it, he said the fresh air on the cliff was unlike anything he’d ever smelt before. Nowhere in those woods would you be able to smell such fresh breeze, such a cooling breeze. By far, it was not the most _inspiring_ words the man had said. But it was the _way_ he said it that stuck with me. That man who had grew up on the preserve all his life, and he chose that one spot to simply smell the fresh air. I went back there for as long as I can remember. Still do. He was right, there’s no other place on my Preserve with fresh air quite like that spot. Nowhere in this town really.”

Jackson frowns. Silence falls between the pair, and to the corner Deputy Parrish shifts awkwardly. Jackson can’t take his eyes off the dark haired deplorable man. The wind moves through his tufts of hair, making them flow in all directions. If there was a choir, they would sing.

“Did you say, _your_ _preserve_?”

“You know, I’ve told that story at many dinner parties,” Hale twists his lips, eyes still shut, “And I’ve always received much better reactions than yours.”

“What do you mean _your_ _preserve_ , Hale?”

“He means what was his family’s preserve. Before he...killed them. It’s now belongs to someone else entirely. An animal sanctuary. But the Hale Family used to own the preserve, yeah,” Deputy Parrish speaks up, "Also, you go to dinner parties?"

Jackson’s eyes light up, comically so, like a light bulb's been switched on above his head, “Come with me.”

Hale scoffs, “Absolutely not.”

“Excuse me?”

Groaning, Hale waves a hand at Boyd, “I’m not too fond of police stations. It’s all the _uniforms_ and _badges_ and _law_ _enforcement_. Take Boyd. Boyd can represent me in whatever pointless plan you’ve concocted.”

Jackson rolls his eyes and dashes into the precinct with a reluctant Boyd in tow. The local police shoot them looks of varying levels of displeasure as they pass; some at the sight of the widely known criminal, some at the sight of specifically Hale’s accomplice and the others at the sight of the dishevelled Agent Whittemore. He rounds over to where the team sits, all still concentrating on their tasks. He stops abruptly and clears his throat, demanding their attention.

“That was fast,” Agent Valet muses.

“I don’t see coffee,” Danny groans.

“No,” Jackson admits with a shrug, barely able to contain his excitement, “But I bring with me something so much better.”

The team looks up at Boyd expectantly.

“You bring us... _Boyd_? Instead of coffee?” Danny frowns.

“I mean, I don’t know if he’s better than coffee,” Stiles shrugs, “I mean, sure, we don’t know the guy. But he is a _criminal_.”

In response, Boyd shrugs.

“No, I bring you _Hale_ ,” Jackson grins proudly.

“But that’s... _Boyd_ ,” Danny frowns.

“And we’ve already had Hale for some time now,” Kira adds.

“Boys represents Hale,” Jackson waves his had dismissively, “The point is, Stiles may not know the woods. And that may be because he’s an actual idiot. But it also might be because it was private property.”

Stiles huffs, “I already said that.”

“Yeah, but the key is _whose_ private property it is. And who got to _bond_ with it _intimately_ for a good fifteen years of his life.”

Stiles’ eyes widen in realization while Jackson’s face breaks out in a grin.  
Simultaneously, the pair lock eyes, “ _Hale_.”

* * *

  
Boyd watches as Derek steps over the threshold of the forest. The man breathes in deeply, inhaling plethora of scents that make the Beacon Hills Preserve home. He straightens his shoulders before crouching down.

“You sure you can do this, Hale?” the one called Lydia frowns, looking ahead and the mess of trees, “This isn’t exactly a small perimeter.”

Derek cracks a wide grin, eyes lighting up with pure mirth. Boyd can feel Derek’s joy in his own bones, reverberating around his body. Out in the open, in the woods that was once his- Boyd can only imagine the thoughts that are swirling through the murky mind of his Boss.

“Oh, Agent,” Derek beams, “ _I_ can. Can _you_ keep up?”

And with that, he tears through the woods, leading the witch-hunt. _To murder_ , Boyd notes, _is one thing_. _To encroach on Hale territory?_ That’s another.

* * *

  
_(Present)_

  
Willow's knees throb with a dull ache, her fingers flex- loosening their grip just for a second before resuming their tight hold on her sisters' hands.

 _The circle of power must not be broken_.

She can feel it- feel the energy of the ground flow through her body. She can feel her mortal self slip into the eternal plane, become one with Mother Nature, become one with the Immortal Beings. The air smells of the earth after the rain- _petrichor_ \- and just the slightest hint of sulphur. She breathes in a heavy breath, basking in the feeling of the smell of pure unadulterated power flow through her body and fill her lungs. She grips the hands of both her sisters who kneel by her side tighter.

 _The circle of power must not be broken_.

All sound dissipates slowly, till she can barely hear the voices of her sisters chanting. She can hear the rush of the wind as it runs past her ears, the leaves rustle as they fall to the ground- death paving the way for life to start anew-, the sound of a babbling brook far down the Preserve. One with nature. One with the Immortal Beings.

 _The circle of power must not be broken_.

She can feel her bones give up their earthly ache, her limbs loosen with its new found power, welcoming in the rush of purity. For years, her fellow sisters have strived in vain to achieve what she shall achieve here today, in the comfort of this little cabin. She can hear the sounds of the clouds rushing to and fro, of lightning crackling in the distance bringing with it the smell of the thunder storm, the sound of wood breaking under a powerful force, of piercing screams and disturbed wails. Her hands are empty. Her sisters fingers grasp desperately at hers before they break their hold.

 _The circle of power has been broken_.

Her eyes fly open, irises a striking purple with lines of sharp white lightning running across them. She can seen them now; men and women clad in black shirts and pants and ballistic vests. Men and women prodding the backs of her sisters with weapons. Her breath seizes within her as she feels the barrel of a gun nudge her back and large arms clasp her shoulders, bearing their weight down on her to force her body to the ground. Her arms fall in front of her to break her fall and the edges of her fingers spark.

The circle of power has been broken, she only contains a shard of it now.

She breathes out, channelling the forces of the Immortals from deep under the ground. A burst of energy blasts out from her palms, sending the men and women that surround her flying back through the walls of the cabin and into the trees that surround it. She’s on her feet before she can register it, fleeing the cabin, fleeing her sisters. She must escape.

She tears through the woods, calling upon the forces of Nature to protect her, aid her. The roots grow, winding and twisting to wrap around the legs of the men and women and follow her. Bullets shoot through the sky, getting lodged in branches that shoot out and vines that reach up to wrap around the small metal objects. She can hear their screams, their confused wails and protests as the trees strain upwards to create a shield. She can see a clearing. If she can get there, she can create a barricade. Hide herself, protect herself.

Footsteps grow louder, nearer. She’s losing her pull on the earth. The circle of power was broken, she only had but a shard. The sounds of nature no longer ring violently in her ears, she can only hear the sounds of bullets ripping through the sky and human screams echoing around her. The footsteps behind her are heavy, loud, close. She can feel the very moment her foot catches on a stray root, she can feel the moment her body topples forward towards the earthy ground. A warm heavy body blankets her the second she makes contact with the soil, and it’s gruff voice follows,

“Jane Meyers, you are under arrest for the murder of Mr. Andrew Harold, Mr. Harry Jackson and Ms. Jessica Wheeler, the robbery of the Beacon Hills Fresh Produce store, for trespassing on private property belonging to the Beacon Hills Animal Sanctuary And Preserve and the conspiracy to commit six more murders. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, the state will provide one for you,” Agent Whittemore sighs, “Let’s get you out of these woods before you make ice fall or some bullshit.”

 _Ice_ , Willow groans as the strong man hauls her up, shaking her arms as though she’s a circus animal, _she should have made it rain ice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter I've written so far, but I just could not split it into two, even though I wanted the chapters to remain at like 3k words per chapter. Anyway, I've been reading all your theories and boy oh boy! I can't reply to them yet because I don't want to give anything away!


	6. A Search For Normalcy, Through the Past and Through the Woods.

**Six**

  
**A Search For Normalcy, Through the Past and Through the Woods.**

  
_(Song; Give us a little love- Fallulah)_

* * *

“Please, you don’t understand. You’re making a big mistake,” she yanks at the cuffs that held her to the table.

The interrogation room is small and cold, with only one table and three chairs. Willow is already occupying one of them, but the other two remain empty- idly taking space. Her reflection on the mirror ahead of her mocks her with its messy hair that has leaves and sticks still stuck in it, the faint remains of runes painted on her skin and the small scratches and trails of blood dotted on the pale skin of her face that serve to remind her of her failure.

Her failure to protect her sisters, to escape, to complete the mission. She yanks at her cuffs again, the cold metal digging into her arms. She’s too weak to break them, too weak to bring down the whole precinct and run. She can barely sit straight, can barely speak.

“You’re making a big mistake,” she whispers, slouching down into her chair.

The door to her left opens and a man and a woman walk in, clad in black suit jackets, white shirts, black ties and black pants. Pictures of the capitalistic world that eats away at mother nature everyday, products of enslavement to human wants and desires. She can see the guns secured in their holsters. She gulps. She doesn’t recognize either, but she thinks she may be able to place him as one of the faces she passed as she was being hauled into the black SUV gracelessly.

“You’re making a big mistake,” she hissed, watching them sit down in front of her.

“Yeah, we heard you the first ten times,” the man quips.

“And yet here I am,” she glowers, “Trapped in your little room.”

“ _Interrogation_ room,” the woman corrects.

The two settle down, placing two files on the table in front of her. The woman one carefully takes her jacket off and places it on the back of her chair.

“Alright, Ms. _Jane_ _Meyers_ ,” she says, pausing briefly before adding, “That _is_ your name, isn’t it?”

Willow looks down at her hands, “Yes.”

“Alright, Ms. Meyers,” she continues, “My name is Agent Valet, this is Agent Stilinski. That was quite a show you put on back there.”

Willow swallows hard, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

The one called Agent Stilinski roll his eyes, “You can cut the act, Ms. Meyers. We know who you are, we know what you were trying to do. When we broke into the cabin it didn’t look like you guys were saying grace.”

“I’ve worked with the supernatural before, Ms. Meyers,” Agent Valet says, “So I know how this is going to go. You’ll try to deny it. You’ll try calling me crazy. You’ll demand a lawyer. But that’s not going to work this time, Ms. Meyers. Because I have a whole group of respectable officers of the law who I can place as witnesses to your little show of magic. You’re not a minor anymore, you will be tried as an adult. _None_ of this looks good, Ms. Meyers.”

Willow averts her eyes from the man’s piercing gaze. Agent Valet leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table top.

“So tell me, what were you trying to achieve, Jane?”

She sucks in her lower lip and starts to nibble on the soft supple skin, “Nothing.”

“Lying to the FBI isn’t a crime you want to add to the already hefty list, Jane,” Agent Stilinski tuts.

“You can’t prove anything,” she growls.

Agent Stilinski frowns, picking up one of the files, “Actually, we can prove that you _robbed_ the Beacon Hills Fresh Produce store. We can also prove that you were _trespassing_ on land that belongs to the Beacon Hills Animal Sanctuary And Preserve, an institution you _don’t_ _own_.”

“And that’s perfectly enough to arrest you, and to have you tried,” Agent Valet shrugs, “But I need to know where the other people you’ve kidnapped are.”

Willow scoffs, leaning back and turning her head away from the agents. She hears the woman sigh and rise to her feet. Her footsteps get closer and suddenly there’s a hand on the back of her chair and a face in her face. Willow runs her eyes over the woman’s face; her sturdy but glass cut jaw, her sharp eyes and raised dark eyebrows, the dark soft hair that frames her face as it curls towards the end into locks, her thin lips that are pursed tightly in a disapproving line, her sharp pointed nose that’s ever so close to Willow’s own maybe only a breath away.

“Here’s the thing, _Willow_ _Havengrave_ ,” she smiles, sickly bitter sweet and dangerous, “Does that work? Shall I call you Willow?”

Willow swallows in an attempt to push down the lump in her throat. It doesn’t budge.

“Yes,” she squeaks.

“Alright, Willow. My buddy there? He’s FBI. The guys outside this room? They are your regular everyday police. Me? I’m _neither_. I don’t answer to a sheriff. In fact, the person I answer to doesn’t even have a _name_. In fact, nor do I. See, my agency has been notorious in the past for getting what we want... _however we want it._ ”

“This...,” Willow gapes, “You’re _threatening_ me. I can...I can report this you know!”

“Report what? That an Agent Valet held your chair really tight and told you she has a tendency to get what she wants? Go ahead,” Agent Valet rises and turns on her heels.

Agent Stilinski leans forward, “Or you can cooperate with us, Jane. We _need_ to find the people you kidnapped.”

Willow trembles in her seat, eyes trained on Agent Valet's back, “I didn’t kidnap them.”

Agent Valet turns around to face her again, “Try being honest this time, Jane.”

“I didn’t kidnap them,” she can feel the tears prickles against her eyes, “I didn’t kidnap them okay? I swear. We weren’t killing people! We were trying to _stop_ it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and both agents exchanged a complicated look.

“Pardon me if I don’t buy it just yet,” Agent Valet frowns, “You are the one who stole the Wolfsbane.”

Willow gasps.

“We know about the ritual, Jane,” Agent Stilinski sighs, “We know everything. If you tell us who you’re trying to stop, and if you tell us honestly, then maybe we can help you. We’re just trying to keep Beacon Hills safe. _Are you_?”

“I am!” she cannot hold back the tears anymore and the flood walls break, the fat tears rolls down her cheeks, “You made a big mistake by bringing me here. You can’t stop her now!”

“Can’t stop _who_ , Jane?” Agent Stilinski whispers softly.

“Rose,” she sobs, “Rose.”

They won’t know. They’ll never know. She can never explain it. They’ll never know. Another sob wreaks through her body and she slouches at the force of it.

“ _Rosemary_ _Wanwood_?” Agent Valet pries, sitting down on her chair.

Willow snaps up to attention, “You know her?”

“Your parents mentioned that you’ve associated her. Your diaries mention that she’s a witch, just like you,” Stilinski explains, “Who is she, Jane? And why are you scared of her?”

Willow trembles, “Rose...I don’t know who Rose is.”

“Jane-,”

“No. No you don’t understand, I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who she is _really_. I don’t know what she looks like- she’s powerful. She uses glamour magic. She...she’s powerful.”

“Glamour magic?” Stilinski frowns.

Willow’s nods, sighing, “Glamour magic. It can cover up what she really looks like, make her look different. Anew. Rose didn’t want us knowing what she looked like. Said she was _ugly_. We all tried to convince her she was beautiful but she refused to believe. I think it’s because she was hiding herself...because she was _bad_. Like _really_ _bad_. Rose...Rose wanted to do the ritual. So yeah, I stole the stuff for her. She said the ritual would help us. That it would restore the Hale Land to its former glory.”

“I’m sorry,” Valet interrupts, “ _Hale_ Land?”

“Yeah, the _Hale_ _Land_ ,” Willow frowns and upon realization she brings her head down to cradle it in her cuffed hands, “You are in deeper waters than you can swim, if you don’t even know what the Hale Land is. Hale Land, this all is _Hale_ _Land_. The Hale Family grew this land- it was the oldest family. They lived here long before Beacon Hills even became a town. After the fire, the land lost most of its magic. The land here- the soil, the trees, even the leaves that fall- they are all full of magic. Untapped magic. But it was dwindling. Rose said she can bring it back with this ritual. But we found out. We found out the ritual was for power, but not power for the _land_. Power for _herself_.”

“Did Rose perform the sacrifices, Jane?”

Willow nods, her lips quivering, “We told her we didn’t kill anybody but she ignored us. Told us she had done this before for someone else. She said it would work, and that we had to be willingly to step out of our comfort zones. But when we found out...it was too late. We couldn’t stop her. That’s what our circle was for! To stop her. To drain the power of the land so that she can perform the ritual. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“The cold case,” Stilinski whispers.

“What?” the female agent frowns.

“A case file Lydia had. It detailed an old, cold case with the same murders. If Rose has done this before, she must have done it then. Did she say who she did it for?”

Willow shook her head, “Rose is private. She doesn’t say anything she doesn’t need to. She never...she never liked to go into details.”

“Jane,” Agent Valet says, voice stern and level, “Do you know where Rose will be? Where she has to be to complete the ritual?”

* * *

  
The phone picks up on the third ring.

“Laochra Cleaning Services, _whatever_ _the_ _mess- we’ll make it go away!_ ” the sweet female voice filters through the phone speaker, “Clarisse speaking, how may I help you?”

They need a new tagline.

“I need to speak to The Caretaker.”

“I’m sorry, honey, I have _no_ idea what you are talking about.”

“This is Boyd speaking. The Caretaker, Clarisse. Now. Before I call Mr. Hale.”

“Mr. Boyd,” Clarisse's voice shoots an octave higher, making Boyd wince, “Of course. Immediately, sir.”

The phone clicks into hold and the sound of a gracefully piano fills his ears. The line clicked again.

“Stop bossing my people around, Boyd,” The Caretaker's voice sighs.

“I need Erica's whereabouts.”

Silence.

“I haven’t seen her. I’m still in Washington, doing some sweeping. She was last reported in Beacon Hills. Is she not there?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if she was.”

“Alright. Okay. _Touchy_. I’ll phone some of the cleaning staff in Beacon Hills. Try to see if they saw anything. I’m sure she’s fine, Boyd.”

Boyd sighs.

“Boyd, am I needed for this case? Because Derek hasn’t spoken to me.”

“He’s being watched too closely. He can’t make any calls. And you’re off the hook, we need these women alive.”

“Alright, I have to go. I’ll get in touch with the cleaning crew. I’m sorry Boyd, but I have to go. I need to sweep the Watchman. See if he has anything to say.”

Boyd nods. The _Watchman_. He grunts approval. The line cuts. Silence.

* * *

  
Nothing in life is normal- not _anymore_. She can delude herself into thinking that it is, that everything remains the same, that everything remains _mundane_ and _ordinary_. She would be lying to herself.

She works with a well known criminal now- gone are the days when her occupation entailed enforcing the law at its utopian intention. She’s trying to locate a witch- gone are the simpler days when she could delude herself into think that no matter what Hale said or Argent thought that it was simply a delusional woman _pretending_ to have control over the elements. She witnessed magic first hand, she can still feel her the pain shooting up an down her back from where she collided with the wall. If she closes her eyes she can still feel it- feel the rush of energy surging through her body before the force of it knocked her back into the fall, leaving a faint thrum of electricity coursing in her veins.

Beside her, Agent Whittemore rearranges the posters of the missing persons, titling his head to the right then to the left then to the right again as though the different angles will make him see each face better. As if everything will suddenly click into place.

“So Stilinski says she needs nine bodies, right?” Jackson sighs, placing his hands on his hips, “Man, how do so many people go missing in such a small town.”

Lydia shuts her eyes and let’s her head drop down to the table. She can feel the surge of electricity again. She can see it unfold behind her eyes.

“I mean, I grew up in a small town too, for like a while. Kids love to fucking run away,” Jackson continues gruffly, “So half of these are probably rebellious kids.”

She groans silently and tosses her head back, leaning against the back of the chair. She can hear the bullets tearing through the sky. She can see the roots grow out and wind around her legs.

“But the thing is,” Jackson rattles on, “These murders will be completely random. So we can rule out the runaways- actually, the runaways would be the perfect targets.”

She snaps, “How the hell are you so _fucking_ _calm_ about this?”

“What?” Jackson startles, eyes wide.

“We just got man-handled by _trees_ , Jackson! That crazy lady made us _fly_ through the air with the force of, I don’t even know _how_!” Lydia yells, “And all you can talk about is this? Is these fucking _runaway_ _kids_?”

Jackson reels back at her frustration. Lydia rises to her feet, pacing the room. She lets out a frustrated groan, grabbing at the pictures of the missing people and tossing them at the door.

“What the fuck do you want me to do, Lydia?” Jackson seethes, rushing to pick up the discarded posters, “This is what we have to do! This is our fucking job! You want me to have a freak out about how witches are real? Because I can’t. Because people are out there, _about_ _to_ _die_!”

“But doesn’t it scare you?” her voice is nothing over a whisper.

Jackson sighs, sinking down to the floor. He runs his hands over his face. There’s a weariness that he can feel heavy behind his eyes that he can’t seem to rub away. He hears the sound of her heels tapping their way towards him till she joins him there.

“You’re really spooked, huh?” Jackson smiles, strained.

Lydia mock scoffs, “How can you tell?”

“You’re sitting on the floor.”

Lydia chuckles airily, dropping her head down to Jackson’s shoulder.

“It does _surprise_ me,” Jackson whispers, “But everything ceased to _freak_ _me_ _out_ the second I learnt that there are people out there selling young girls for sex, beating up their wives, murdering their husbands, abusing their kids. _Burning their family homes_. If a human can do all that- humans we think are rational, and superior- what’s to say witches don’t exist? What’s to say the impossible can’t happen?”

Lydia sighs, “I hate this. All of it.”

A comfortable silence settles down between the two. Jackson sighs, gently placing a hand in Lydia's knee. 

“Come on, Martin. We’ve got to work to do, courtesy of Hale’s little mouth peice.”

“Stiles is not _Hale’s_ _mouth_ _piece_ ,” Lydia rolls her eyes.

Jackson shrugs, “Could’ve fooled me.”

* * *

  
Stiles slams the door to the interrogation room shut behind him and sighs. He leans against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Trying to clear his mind of all the unwanted thoughts that float around helplessly, needlessly digging into his mind and creating anxieties where there need not be any. Witches are real, werewolves are real, and that’s just something he’ll have to deal with now. He can feel someone’s gaze on him, and he snaps his head to the right to find a mildly worried and frowning Deputy Clark.

The deputy sighs and walks over to Stiles’ slouching body, “Hey kid, long time no see.”

Stiles nods stiffly, “Deputy Clark.”

“Come on, kid,” the Deputy Clark sighs, “I think you can call me Valarie.”

Stiles sighs, sinking down to the cold floor of the station, “Hey, Val.”

A beat of silences passes, and Valarie sink down to join Stiles on the floor. She stares ahead at the wall in front of them, letting the silence turn into a comfortable one.

“I never wanted to be back here,” Stiles sighs deeply, leaning his head on the wall behind him, “I don’t mean that in a _bad_ way. It’s just...I just..”

“Nah, don’t sweat it,” Valarie smiles, “I know what you mean. Damn kid, this must _suck_ , huh?”

Stiles groans, “More than you can imagine.”

Valarie shrugs, “Every time I see you, I see him. And it just...shakes me. Every time I see that I see you do your frown, kid, I see your father’s determined face and I can hear his stern voice and...and this isn’t what you need right now, at all. I’m sorry.”

A beat of silence, then Stiles shakes his head slowly, “No. No, that’s actually one thing I missed about this place. God, no one _knows_ him there, you know? In Washington, no one knows him. I missed hearing his name, hearing stories about him. Fuck, I missed the way people would just...talk about him. Like he was still here, sneaking bacon burgers into the office.”

Valarie chuckles softly, “You remember the night of the fire?”

There’s no need to ask what fire. Beacon Hills didn’t have many arson cases- and regular house fires where never something any one would remember.

Stiles scoffs, “How can I forget? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of forced to work with _Derek_ _Hale_.”

“That boy,” Valarie shakes her head, “God, when I see him I just see John.”

Stiles lets out a staggered, forced and bitter laugh, “You see my _law_ _abiding Sherriff_ father in the _very much criminal_ Derek Hale? I think you’ve officially lost it, Val.”

“Come on, kid,” Valarie sighs, “You know what I’m talking about. That fire shook us all, right down to the core. With Mike gone and the whole Hale family gone- it just shook the whole town. Laura and Derek were so small and that boy was wrapped up in your dad’s arms constantly. He didn’t leave John’s side. Refused to. It was like a little duckling had imprinted on him. And John...John was _furious_. Furious that we could even begin to suspect the kid. It broke him, you know, when Derek left. It _hurt_ him to see all those arson charges and murder charges be slapped on the boy, _sure_ , but when Derek and Laura left? That _broke_ him. Come on, kid. You know what I’m talking about. You were there.”

Stiles sighs.

“You might live in Washington now, and you might be ignoring all of us today,” Valarie sighs, rising up to her feet, “And we get it. If it’s painful for us, then it must be hell for you. But you can’t hide from us for long. You’re going to have to talk to Parrish at some point. And Martha, that lady did you a lot of favour by ratting John out about his burgers- the least you can do is drop her a hello.”

Valarie smiles weakly, reaching down to ruffle Stiles’ hair before walking off towards her desk. A few deputies shoot Stiles watchful looks, as if trying to asses whether they too can come talk to him. The door of the interrogation room opens and Agent Valet steps out.

“So,” Stiles says from his place on the floor, “Your name’s not Allison Valet?”

Valet shrugs, “And your name’s not Stiles.”  
“You don’t know that,” Stiles murmurs, “And hey! The FBI knows my real name. Does the DIA know yours?”

Valet chuckles, “I’m going to head over to find Martin and Mahealani. Tell them the news about Rosemary. Jane isn’t giving anything else up- not because she lack information or because she’s stubborn, she’s just _crying_ too much. I’ll be back to interrogate the rest of her... _coven_ ...with you.”

Stiles nods, noticing her aversion to his question, “So what do I call you?”

“Hmm?”

“Your name’s not Allison Valet, so what do I call you?”

“I was bluffing, Stiles.”

“No you weren’t. You know, I know what the DIA is, and what they do. Plus, you never answered my question.”

“The Defence Intelligence Agency specializes in military intel for combat and non-combat-,”

“Yeah that’s a load of crap,” Stiles rolls his eyes, “Come on, everyone knows the DIA is a fucking hub of spies. The only thing I’m concerned about is _whose_ spy you are.”

“You do know that a spy would literally never tell you, right?”

Stiles shrugs, “I won’t tell the team. _Pinky_ _promise_.”

“Your commanding officer knows what he needs to know,” Valet rolls her eyes, “Just call me Allison, Stiles. Or Valet. Or Agent Valet. Call me _anything_.”

Stiles hums, “Alright. Well, I will figure this out eventually, Sugar.”

Allison bristles, “Anything but that.”

“But you said _anything_!” Stiles protests as Allison walks away, “ _Anything_ , honey!”

“Not that either!” she calls out as she disappears further into the station.

Stiles sighs. He bends his knees, bringing them closer to his chest, almost mirroring his position of curled up and waiting that he used to take up whenever his father worked late night. The only thing missing was his arms hugging his knees and his earphones wedged into his ears. Stiles is an FBI agent now, he can’t afford to hug his knees even if no one was around to witness it. He remembers taking up this same position fifteen years ago, on one cold night, his father in the waiting room of the station, wrapping a blanket around a shaking teenage boy.

He remembers sitting in the police car just a few hours before, too small to understand what was going on but big enough to make out the worry in his father’s voice as he tells him to _stay put, Stiles, seriously, no taking off the seatbelt_.

He remembers curling up in the passenger seat. He remembers how they had got a call from dad’s little walkie-talkie on the way home, something urgent that had caused his dad to turn the car around sharply and drive all the way to the edge of the preserve, leap out the car with only a warning to Stiles before disappearing into the woods.

He remembers his dad coming back with a boy, much older than him, before opening the back door and sliding the boy in. The boy looked scared. Stiles stands up in his seat, peering over it at the newcomer.

“Stiles,” he remembers his dad saying, “Keep him company, okay, kid? I’ll be back soon.”

The boy looked scared, like he was going to cry. He was pretty- even though his ears were too big for his face and his limbs a little too long for his body. He looked like one of those kids from the fairy tales. He looked like a Lost Boy. Kind of rugged and funny looking. But still kind of pretty. Like Peter Pan. Stiles remembers telling him that, but the boy didn’t react. Stiles remembers asking,

“Are you in trouble?”

The boy had shaken his head. Stiles remembers clambering out of the car and climbing into the back seat and curling up next to the boy. Sure, his dad had said to stay put. But he had also said to keep the boy company and he couldn’t keep him company from the front seat. Not when there’s a grill separating them.

“I’m Stiles,” he had grinned, “That was my dad there. He’s a police man. Usually, we only have bad guys back here. All the bad guys _stink_. You don’t stink. Well, you do. Kind of. You smell like you’re _burnt_. Are you burnt? I smelt the smoke when I got out, plus all that smoke up in the air? There’s definitely a fire, did you get burnt? Dad says I’m too young to understand things so he won’t tell me anything, but like I know what a _fire_ is. I’m _nine_! That’s not young. How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” the boy had whispered, “You talk a lot.”

“Oh yeah. My dad says it’s because I’m really smart, but Jason said it’s because my brain is broken and it can’t shut off but what Jason know, right? He only got a _C_ for yesterday’s test. Plus, brains aren’t supposed to shut off. You could like...die...if your brain just shuts off, right? Fifteen is so old, do you know if people die if their brain shuts off? Am I annoying you? Should I shut up? Dad told to keep you company and usually when he says he has company he talks a lot. Is this okay?”

The boy had nodded, “Yeah, you can die if your brain shuts off. Or you can go into a coma. I don’t mind you talking. You can talk.”

“What’s a _coma_?” Stiles had rambled on, “You don’t talk much. At least not as much as me. Do you not like talking? Man, dad’s sure gone for a long time. I think dad would like you, you seem cool. I like your shirt. Batman is awesome. I love batman. I’m Stiles, what’s your name?”

“You already said that,” the boy had paused, “Derek.”

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles had tested the name.

“Do you have a sister?,” he had asked and at the boys hesitant nod had pummelled on, “Figured. I saw her get into Parrish’s car. She kind of looked like you. That’s so cool. I’m an only child, so that sucks. I mean I guess we’re friends now, so I guess she’s my friend too. This is cool. I’ve never had a friend before.”

“We are?” the boy had frowned, “We’re friends? Laura’s okay?”

Stiles has shrugged, “If you want to be, I mean I’d like it. I’ve never had a friend before. And you don’t mind my talking. Would your parents mind? Would they mind _me_ , not my talking. Or well, would they kind you being friend with me and would they mind my talking?”

The boy had looked away, “I don’t think my...I think my...I think they are dead...I think they died...I think...”

Stiles had frowned, curling closer to the boy, “Oh. I’m sorry. My mom died too. It really _sucks_. And _hurts_. But you can share my dad. He can handle it. I’ll tone it down on the talking, and then he can handle both of us. He’s strong like that. I mean, he says he can’t handle a dog but like you’re potty trained and a human so he can’t say no. So it’s okay, don’t be sad.”

“I think...I don’t think...I don’t think anyone likes me very much right now,” tears had streamed down the boy’s face, “I...I don’t think your dad likes me very much.”

Stiles had shook his head, he remembers needing the boy to believe him, and to stop crying.

“My dad has to like you,” he had insisted, “Because I like you.”

Derek had sighed, curling over Stiles’ small body, “What’s to like?”

* * *

  
Heavy feet thud against the forest floor, crushing the fallen leaves and weak roots. The mildew withers underneath thick boots. Squirrels peak out from their hiding spots before dashing back to safety, hidden in the knots and boles of the trees. The rangers sigh deeply, trekking through the forest while shining their torches around. Agent Yukimura groans softly, planning her hands on her hips and assessing the forest bed that was illuminated by the shine of the torch light strapped to her ballistic vest. She’s been scouring these woods for hours, trying to find a semblance of left over evidence or anything that could connect Willow Havengrave to the crimes and ritual, besides complete happenstance and the word of a criminal. So far, it was a moot endeavour.

She sighs, advancing through the woods once more, moving stray branches away. The branches have gone back to being simply branches and no longer weapons of their own. Her mind is still reeling- trying desperately to make sense of how the woods had come alive, prying urgently for an explanation or any explanation that wasn’t woodland magic. That too was a moot endeavour.

Agent Valet was right, the woods were massive. Nevertheless, Kira ambles through the forest with the rangers and the deputies that had been dispatched to aid her in her task. She takes a sharp turn, distancing herself from the chattering deputies in an attempt to find a moment of solace. Not many of the locals knew about what the team had seen- the light shooting out of the girl’s hands, the unseen force that had pushed them back to the cabin walls, the forest that had come alive to aid the girl’s escape. Not that any of them would believe her if she told them. Who would? She sighs. She looks up at the sky that was faintly dotted with blinking stars and pale clouds. The half moon shines brightly, beaming down at her. She felt her feet knock something down on the forest floor, nearly causing her to fall face first down on to the slightly damp soil.

 _Damn roots_ , she groans, _I think I’ve had enough of roots for my entire life time_. She picks up her feet and tries to manoeuvre her way around the root, only to place her feet directly on a large stump. The stump moves underneath her, and a shrill shriek if fear escapes her mouth before she can stop her self, causing her to flail around in an attempt to regain balance. In failing at that, her body careens towards the floor. _I’m allowed to scream_ , she thinks bitterly, _I have to mentally deal with witches and magic. This is not what I’m paid for. I want regular dead people back._ Groaning, she props herself up by her elbows to stare at the offending root.

“Um...hey guys?” she calls out, mouth dry, “I think I found something.”

The sound of rangers' feet approaching her grows loud and a group of tired but worried men hurry towards her voice.

She gulps, “Or someone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song mentioned is literally one of my favourite songs and I was saving it for a truly badass chapter but it fit here so I put it here. Anyway, I'm really excited to finish up the next chapter yey. I love allll your comments and gonna get around to replying to them soon! Also I'll be adding tags as I go soz. Also I read the comment about paragraph lengths so I looked back at the chapters and hot damn I need break lines thank you for pointing it out! The word document looks so different than when it's posted here. Anyway, I'll work my way back through the chapters and space out the paragraphs too. Not immediately but soon :D


	7. The Conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the chapter title, this is not the final segment.   
> The terminology used in the opening scene will be in the notes at the end. The most relevant ones will pretty much be explained in the chapter itself though.

**Seven**

**The Conclusion**

_(The Lamb- Little Scream)_

* * *

“Dispatch to control, Dispatch to control.”

Her body is gently lifted off the forest floor and placed on a gurney. The paramedics exchange words incoherent to the untrained ear while they run beside her towards the screaming, wailing ambulance. The woman inside the ambulance leans down as they hoist the gurney into the vehicle.

“We’ve got a Jane Doe heading towards the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital,” the woman says into her two way radio, immediately placing her hands on her body and beginning chest compressions, “Several significant wounds on her thighs and scalp. Abrasions on her wrists and torso. Patient is unresponsive.”

The EMTs climbs aboard the hospital issued ambulance, and hook the Jane Doe to various machines, mumbling furiously as they do. They open her eye lids, flashing a torch down at them.

“Patient’s pupils are experiencing severe dilation. Pin point, paired with respiratory depression. Conducting GSC test.”

“Drugs?” Kira frowns, waving a ranger off as she climbs into the ambulance.

An EMT moves around the patient, examining Jane Doe's body, “GSC 3-4. Patient comatose.”

“Most likely,” the paramedic answers Kira, then speaks into her two way radio strapped to her shoulder, “Body language indicative of drug usage.”

“No secondary trauma. Continue regular chest compressions.”

The doors to the vehicle shut and it whirrs to life, letting out it’s shrill cry as it tears down the streets of Beacon Hills.

“Intubating patient. HR steady.”

Kira grimaces, pulling out her phone and hitting speed dial.

The paramedics chatter on worriedly, peering over Jane Doe, glancing at the heart monitor. Jane Doe remains unresponsive under them.

“Whittemore, it’s Yukimura,” she says as the phone line clicks and Jackson’s breathing filters through, “We have a Jane Doe headed to the hospital. Was found a few feet away from the cabin, the rangers will get back to me with the exact details. She’s got some nasty wounds up her thighs- looks like she’s been mauled by a bear. What? No- I can’t ask her anything. She’s completely unconscious.”

“No response. Moving forward with a Narcan,” the EMT says.

The EMT places a mask over Jane Doe’s nose, introducing a surge of Naloxone into her airway system. The heart monitor beside them beats two heart beats. The heart monitor blimps hopefully. _Thud_ _thud spike_ _thud_. The residents of the ambulance hold their breath. Jane Doe lies before them, slipping back into a state of no response.

“ALOC,” the EMT sighs, “Slight response.”

“A few abrasions on her wrists,” Kira continues, grimacing, “Paramedics suspect drug usage too. Might be one of those runaways Willow wanted to use as a victim. What? _Rosemary_? I don’t follow. Listen, just meet me at the- hold on, what was the hospital?”

“Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, ma’am,” the female paramedic answers, slipping her fingers into Jane Doe’s mouth to swab her tongue, “It’s pretty much the only hospital in town.”

“Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, Jackson,” Kira parrots, “Bring Stilinski. I didn’t _ask_ if you _liked_ him, I didn’t _ask_ you anything. I _told_ you to bring him.”

“Oh my god!,” the paramedic screams, jumping backwards and colliding with the wall of the ambulance, “Oh my god, she has _fangs_! Oh my god, what the fuck?” 

* * *

  
Stiles sighs, staring at the forlorn figure lying limply on the bed, her skin pulled and pricked by various little machines that beep and blimp systematically. He finds himself on _Watch Duty_ yet again, while Agents Whittemore and Yukimura brief AD Argent. Somehow, the _Coma Patient Watch_ was proving to be less bearable than watching over the deplorable Derek Hale. Stiles sighs. Jane Doe does nothing in response. The HR monitor whirrs.

The acidic smell of cleaning supplies that came with the hospital winds it’s way up his nose till his mind starts reeling. He hates this place; the clinical white walls and the sorry attempt at placating patients with soft blue chairs and curtains. The stiff beds and insistent sounds of machines beeping and whirring and streamlining and spiking in various rooms. Stiles groans. Jane Doe does nothing in response. The BP monitor whirrs.

He doesn’t understand why she needs a protection detail anyway. It’s not like she can _go anywhere_. Or _say anything_. She was comatose. The door creaks open slowly, and Stiles rises to air his complaints to Agent Whittemore. The sight of Derek Hale makes him reel make, hand shooting out to grab the gun in his holster.

“What the hell are you doing here, Hale?” he stage whispers, as though the completely unresponsive and medically comatose Jane Doe could hear him talk to a criminal.

Hale shrugs, sauntering in, “My contact explicitly says I can roam about as a free man.”

Stiles glowers. He rolls his eyes, patting his gun and giving Hale a pointed stare. Hale ignores him, opting instead to sit at the edge of the bed and pick up Jane Doe’s hand gentle. He holds her small frail hand in his own much larger, calloused hands and sighs. It's a fond touch. Familiar. Stiles frowns. Hale sighs again. 

“The _irony_ of hospitals will never cease to amaze me,” he says, voice a gentle smooth whisper, “The way they brandish and boast _health_ and _life_ anew. Snakes. Like the ones that wind around their symbol, they lie. This place that promises life reeks of _death_.”

Stiles stiffens, then forces a faux shrug of nonchalance, “Well, you know death intimately. You administer it.”

Hale smiles, “I lived my whole live plagued with it. This was my mother’s room. She died here. She could have lived, they said she’ll live, she’ll survive. She was in a battle against her body and the burn won. This room still smells of death. They _lied_."

“Here’s a thought,” Stiles mumbles, “Maybe don’t set things on _fire_ if you don’t want them to _die_.”

The muscles in Hale’s back stiffen and clench. His grip on the girl’s arm tightens ever so slightly before loosening again. He gives out a heavy exhale, and chuckles softly.

“Glad you find this amusing.”

“You know loss and death intimately too, do you not?”

Stiles twists his lips, “Don’t talk to me about loss.”

“We both suffer intense loss. We both have stains of death in this very hospital.”

“ _Do not_ talk to me about loss.”

“I remember the night your father died-,”

“No you don’t,” Stiles seethes, slamming his fist into the wall, “Do not talk about my father like you knew him.”

Derek drops the girl’s hand and rises to his feet fluidly, “You can lie to the FBI, to your new friends, you can even lie to yourself. But we both know the truth.”

“Bullshit. You can’t claim to _know_ my father,” Stiles hisses, stalking up to square up in front of the larger man, “You _used_ my father.”

Hale bristles, “Do not speak of things you do not know, _Agent_.”

“Oh?” Stiles laughs, “I’m not supposed to talk about shit I don’t know? Practice your sermon, _Hale_.”

“I never,” Hale’s nostrils flare as he takes a firm step towards Stiles, “I never _used_ John.”

Stiles shoves at his chest, “Do not call him _John_. Do not call him _anything_. Do not talk about my father!”

He can feel bastard tears burn at his eyes. He turns around sharply, hiding his face from the other man.

“You’re crying,” Hale frowns, “Stiles, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know what it’s like to lose family, to have them ripped away from you. I know what it’s like to lose a father- I lost a father twice.”

Stiles grits his teeth, glaring harshly at the wall, “You didn’t fucking lose your family! _I_ lost my family. I _lost_ them. I _lost_ my mother, and my father. You _killed_ yours. You burnt them alive. You took their love and affection and care and you _burnt_ it all, _you_ reek of _death_.”

Hale takes a step back, “John wouldn’t approve of such bitter anger-,”

He spins around wildly, his hand flying through the air before he knows it as he yells, voice strangled with pain, “ _Do not_ talk about my father.”

A warm, firm hand grips his wrist inches away from Hale’s face. The man exhales, nostrils flaring. His grip on Stiles’ wrist tightens.

“I _really_ don’t think you should go around talking about things you don’t know. This isn’t an advice, it’s a _warning_. Take it. You don’t know the first thing about your own life, Stiles,” he hisses, fingers curling in and tightening their hold, “the fucking first thing.”

Stiles winces, “You’re hurting me.”

Hale drops his hand like it burns him to hold it and leaps backwards. He stares at Stiles, eyes darting from his wrist to his face and back again. His breathing is shallow. His fists clench and unclench. Stiles turns around sharply. He runs his fingers through his hair, groaning softly.

“Look me in the eye and say it.”

The HR monitor whirrs.

“What?”

“Look me in the eye and say that I killed my family.”

Stiles turns around to stare ridiculously at Hale, mouth opening and closing.

“Look me in the eye,” Hale says slowly, as though he were explaining it to an incompetent child, “and tell me that I _killed_ my parents. That I _killed_ the woman who raised me, the man who taught me how to walk, my siblings, my cousins, my _five_ _year_ _old_ cousin who still didn’t know how to run without falling, my aunts, my uncles. Tell me I took their love and affection and burnt it all up. That I burnt my _home_ , my _family_ , my _future_ , my _life_. Tell me that I watched it burn at fifteen, because I set it a flame myself. Tell me that at fifteen, I took the only people who were protecting me and burnt them alive. Look me in my eyes and tell me.”

Stiles stares back at him. The words get lodged in the lump in his throat. The door flies open and a confused Agent Whittemore steps in, followed briskly by a tired Kira and a reserved Boyd.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” Whittemore throws his hands up in confusion.

The BP monitor whirrs.

Hale turns sharply, moving to sit on the bed. He picks up the girls arm and cradles it in his.   
Jane Doe does nothing in response. Nor does Stiles. 

* * *

  
“St. Anthony’s Fire,” Danny crashes through the door, breathing heavily.

“What?” Yukimura frowns, “Wait, you’re Christian?”

“No. I mean not the point. I wasn’t declaring religious beliefs, I figured it out. _Ergotism_. St. Anthony’s Fire.”

Jackson waves an impatient hand, “Expand, Mahealani.”

“Okay so, I’ve been wreaking my brain trying to figure out what Willow wanted with the rye. But when Agent Valet questioned her, after she stopped crying and everything, she didn’t know. Then Jane Doe here shows up, and boom. It all falls into place. _Ergot_.”

“ _Magical_ ,” Jackson rolls his eyes, “What is it? Opium? Crack cocaine?”

“Surprisingly similar, actually. It’s Ergotism. Rosemary Wanwood didn’t want the rye per se, she wanted a fungus that grows on the rye; Ergot. See, in 1951, there was a massive epidemic in France. It wasn’t exactly the first case of Ergotism, but it was the biggest. The people of France had overconsumed rye bread, unknowingly overdosing on a certain fungus that grows on forage crops like rye and barley. They called it St. Anthony’s Fire. The sickness was so painful it was compared to the suffering of St. Anthony.”

Danny stares and the blinking faces of his team.

“He suffered a lot, that’s the point. The pain that they experienced was like the fire that burnt through him- _never mind_. This epidemic lasted pretty much through out the 19th century, and was said to be one of the main causes for the start of the _Salem Witch_ _Hunts_. The overdose of Ergot literally drove these people insane, and no one could explain it, so naturally they chalked it up to bewitchment. Now that we know witches are real, I wouldn't cross that out."

Danny pulls out his laptop and places it on the bed, tapping it till it whirred to life. He frowns, reading off the screen,

“Yeah, Ergot was used commonly in rituals and _ritual killings_. In large doses it can causes convulsions, headaches, hallucinations, mania and delirium. When Jane Doe popped up bearing those fancy fangs, it fit two things into the puzzle. Firstly, Rosemary doesn’t want the rye for her human sacrifices. She wants it for her _alpha werewolf hair_. According to lore, Ergot can drive humans insane, and it can have similar if not worse effects on werewolves. Even put them into drug induced comas.”

The team turns there attention to the unresponsive Jane Doe.

“What the fucks an Alpha werewolf?” Jackson groans.

“The one who pisses in a circle,” Stiles offers.

Danny meanwhile sighs out, “The _leader_ of a werewolf pack. That’s not rocket science, it’s not like the word Alpha is a rare term.”

“And secondly?” Kira rolls her eyes at the digressed conversation.

“Secondly, Ergot is similar to _Lysergic Acid_ _Diethylamide_. LSD. Its been compared to LSD and opium in the past, and Jane Doe’s response to the Naloxone proves it. Naloxone is a drug that is meant too boost your body back to life in the case that you've overdoses on an a drug like opium. The fact that she responded to it probably means that the counter drug worked, and there really is an opioid - _or Ergot_ \- in her system. I suspect her reaction was only minimal because Jane Doe has been coped up on quite a lot of it, and she’s a werewolf. To wake her up, we’re going to need a hell of a lot of Naloxone.” 

“Or Wolfsbane,” Boyd murmurs, voice nothing over a curious whisper.

“Boyd,” Hale rumbles, “I think it’s time we call the Good Doctor.”

* * *

  
The Good Doctor sighs, ambling into the hospital. People bustle around him, offering nothing but slight nods of acknowledgement as they hurry along with their busy schedules. Their pages beep and they glance down, reacting with varying degrees of urgency as the rush about the hospital. The Good Doctor grimaces, climbing into elevator. It’s a tight fit, he’s wedged in-between the sweaty bodies of blue uniformed nurses and tired patient families. He offers the woman on his right a tight lipped smile and she huffs indignantly in response. The doors to the elevator slide open with a ding. The Good Doctor steps out and looks down at the scrap of paper that he hastily wrote down instructions in illegible hand writing. In his defence, he had been holding a bunny at the time, trying to give it its shots. Said bunny kept trying to jump.

The note beams up lopsided at him; room _216_. Or _215_. Or _275_? The Good Doctor sighs. _Ah well_ , he mutters inwardly as he stalks towards room 215, _it’ll be like a fun guessing game_.

Somehow, it’s room 218.

“Whatever the emergency,” he mutters upon entrance, “It couldn’t have been more important than what I was doing.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “You were tending to hares. I could hear their heart beats.”

“They were bunnies,” the Good Doctor quips, “You know they were bunnies. You just don’t want to say it.”

The Good Doctor asses the strangers in the room. He grunts lieu of a hello. The strangers return the grunt. One waves.

“I’m Agent Whittemore,” one of the grunters says, “You must be _the_ _Good Doctor_.”

“I’m not too interested in introductions,” he shrugs, “I am, after all, hoping to never have to see you lot again.”

“I’m Agent Stilinski,” one steps forward earnestly, “This here is Danny. Sorry to force the introductions upon you. We just need Jane Doe awake. And fast.”

The Good Doctor nods, moving to open his bag on the bed. He pulls out his oxygen mask infused with Wolfsbane.

“Yeah,” Agent Whittemore grunts, “She’s effectively useless to us as a vegetable.”

The Good Doctor rolls his eyes and places the mask on her face. Boyd dutifully moves towards the door to keep watch, precautions in the case that someone were to interrupt them.

“This is all shades of illegal,” Stilinski groans, “We can’t just administer substances to patients!”

“Do you want to go tell Nurse Holly over there that her patent is a werewolf?” the Good Doctor raises his eyebrows, "A werewolf on drugs?"

Stilinski relents. For a second nothing happens. The Jane Doe breathes in the Wolfsbane infused air through his oxygen mask, unresponsive.

The reaction is sudden. She shoots up, breathing laboured, gasping band clutching to Derek’s hand that holds hers. Her eyes are wide in fear, teeth sharp, face frozen mid shift, stance defensive but shocked. The Good Doctor beams.

“Hello _Malia_ , welcome back.”

“Oh good,” Stilinski throws his hands up, “The glorified hunting dog is awake.”

* * *

  
Malia Tate, age unknown though she likes to round it to a ball park of twenty three, cousin to Derek Hale and quite possibly an _assassin_ and/or _contract killer_ \- neither conformed nor denied. Malia Tate takes in the news with a frown, but no protests. Save for one. To which she frowns and protests.

“We suspect Rosemary used the ergot to lure you in, to get one of your hairs as the ritual requires the hair of an Alpha Werewolf," Danny finishes. 

Malia frowns, “But I’m not an Alpha. Or a werewolf.”

“We saw the fangs,” Stiles shrugs, “And the whole facial hair thing. Cool party trick, but kind of rules out vampire. There's no point lying to us, Cujo."

“I’m a _werecoyote_ ,” she glares at him, “A _beta_ werecoyote.”

A silence lulls down in the room, till Hale’s silent looming figure speaks up.

“I think she was using you to lure me in.”

“What?” Agent Whittemore sputters, “I’m sorry what? You’re a _werewolf_? You’re an _alpha_ werewolf?”

Whittemore scrambles for his gun and Hale lets out a tired sigh, as though all this child’s play is grating on his nerves.

“Don’t bother with your pitiful weapons, Agent,” Hale rolls his eyes, “Your guns will do nothing but leave a few scratches at most. I’m a werewolf, and an Alpha at that. I don’t mean to posture, but I can tear you apart limb by limb before you can even pull the trigger.”

“So she failed, right? It didn’t work,” Malia pipes up, ignoring Hale's blatant circle pissing, “She doesn’t have me- _fuck_.”

“What?” Danny frowns, “ _Fuck_ what? Why _fuck_?”

“Erica.”

Boyd stiffens. Malia groans, burying her face in her hands.

“Derek, she has _Erica_. I was out in the woods with her when I happened, and I'm here and she's not. _Fuck_.”

Boyd turns around sharply and storms to a corner of the room, glowering at the agents. Stiles can see the barely contained anger and fear dance behind his eyes. Boyd had never shown emotion before. The sheer display of it was settlings sickly in his chest.

Derek nods grimly, heaving a deep sigh, “You don’t have much control over your shift yet. You must have been volatile to control. Given Erica’s past with seizures, she must have lapsed into a dull state. An easy prey.”

“She’d hate that you said that,” Malia mumbles.

“Malia,” Stiles begins, wincing a little at the cold glare she shoots him, “Ms. Tate? Do you know where Erica is? Or Rosemary?”

Malia drops her head in shame, “No. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t hear her plans.”

Stiles grimaces, sighing and running his fingers through his hair. Whittemore groans, kicking the bed frame and rattling the bed. Malia frowns, twitching her nose.

“But,” she says, eyes widening when the eight pairs of eyes snap to focus on her, “I did catch her scent. And I am, as you said, a glorified hunting dog.”

Stiles laughs nervously, then points an accusatory finger at Agent Whittemore, “He also called you _vegetation_.”

Jackson flounders in weak protest. Hale stiffens. Without so much as a foreboding word, he stalks out of the room letting the room slam shut behind him. Stiles chews on his lower lip before sighing and following him out. 

“With all due respect, please go back into the room, Agent,” Hale sighs heavily.

Stiles pauses, wringing his hands nervously, “Is this about the hunting dog joke? Was that offensive?”

“Was it offensive? Yes. Is that why I’m out here? _No_. So please kindly return to the room of pensive agents.”

Stiles twists his lips, “Are you okay?”

A beat of silence.

“Excuse me?”

Stiles sighs, “Are you okay?”

Hale stiffens, and after another beat of agonizing silence, relents, “These people are all I have left of a family. If you’re hear to _mock_ me, save it. If you’re here to _criticize_ me, save it. If you’re here to _challenge my_ _loss_ , I’d rather you not. I have lost everything, I cannot lose them too. Not for me. Not again.”

The hospital lights flicker gently. For a moment, Stiles sees it. The old weary man frowning gently at the young boy wrapped in a shock blanket, clinging to his every word. He sees the young boy, ears too big, crying into the old man’s shoulder. He sees his father crouching down beside fifteen year old Derek, telling him that he’ll sort it all out before ushering him over to Stiles.

So he says, “I know. Yeah, I know.”

* * *

  
Running through the woods is all too familiar, and it jolts him with a sense of _Deja vu_. The very concept of running towards something they have no semblance of understanding over. Of something, or someone, that holds more power than they can even begin to comprehend. By the time they reach the edges of the Preserve, darkness has settled down upon Beacon Hills, settling down in death’s second seal. It’s Derek that sees her first. His whole body snaps to attention, rigid and stiff, and he turns his face towards a cowering, frail body tied gruesomely to a tree. The rope binds the woman’s body tightly, holding her limbs down and her neck in a mock choke hold.

The others slowly come into view; limp bodies tied to trees, heads dropped and body sagging, kept upright only by the tight bindings. Stiles can feel the bile rise in his throat. He can place vague faces to some on the posters. Ten bodies. Nine for the ritual, one for bait. Derek moves to dart forward to aid the woman when a thin wrist grabs his shoulder, steadying him in place.

“It’s a trap,” Malia says.

The woman bound against the tree whines high pitched like a hurt puppy before violently thrashing against the ropes that hold her. She screams, eyes blown wide open but seemingly unaware of their presence. Stiles notes the faint glint of her claws and fangs.

“Ergot,” he frowns, glancing at Danny who looks back at him with the same curious yet cautious expression.

“She’s hurting,” Derek forces out, seething, sounding like he hasn’t breathed, so strained with pain.

The woman tosses her head to the side, and the sound of her skull hitting hard against the age old bark cracks through the woods.

“Erica!” Boyd screams, lunging forward.

A firm hand pushes him back, and he tumbles down on to the forest floor making bedfellows with the fallen leaves.

“Derek,” he says, voice broken and small.

“Malia’s right,” Derek says, voice so low and gravelly that it seems like a growl, “it’s a trap.”

“How do you know?” Yukimura frowns, scanning the empty space in front of them.

“What do we do?” Lydia whispers, drawing out her weapon.

Boyd whines. Malia turns to face the woods in front of her, letting out a blood curdling snarl. The sound rings in the empty woods. The strange woman whines. Soft leaves crunch in the darkness and a shadowy figure slowly emerges. A woman, thin as a leaf with protruding bones and long black hair that whips around in the wind by her hips steps into the faint remnant light spilling into the clearing by the cliff from the faint sunlight.

“Hello Alpha,” she says in a sing song voice.

Her voice seems detached from her being itself, and it unnerves Stiles. It crawls into a space in his chest and claws at it. It’s wrong. It’s eerie. It’s wrong. It floats out of her like a tortured birdsong.

“ _Alpha_ , _Alpha_ , Alpha Hale,” she coos, “right where I want you to be.”

Derek snarls, crouching down to the floor in an animalistic defensive stance. Malia follows suit almost immediately, Boyd rises from the floor into a smooth crouch. The agents hesitantly pull out their weapons, following Lydia’s lead with shaky arms, steadying it levelled to the woman’s head.

“Do you know who I am, Alpha?” she sings, “Do you remember me?”

Malia's face cracks as it seems to restructure- forming sharper angles and sprouting hairs that weren’t there before. Claws rips out of her nail beds and her fangs drop down with a menacing smile. Stiles can feel his heart jump skittishly.

“I know you remember me,” the woman continues gleefully, “You’ll always remember me.”

“Stand down,” Agent Whittemore's booming voice breaks through the trance the woman had pulled them into, “This is the FBI, put your hands above your head and stand down.”

“I have your Beta, Derek,” the woman croons, “Just like I had your little parents and siblings. All cooked up on rye, mindless. Writhing in that basement as the whole place caught fire. I’ll free your Beta this time though, just for a small price. Just a single hair off the back of your wolf, please.”

“I repeat,” Whittemore yells, “This is the FBI. Put your hands above your head and get down in your knees.”

“Oh, human,” the woman sighs in a melancholy tune, "Little, little human."

She flicks her wrist, murmuring an incoherent slew of chants and a pattern on her forehead illuminates with purpose. Jackson’s body hurtles backwards, colliding with a tree. He seizes up, shocks of electricity surging up his body and locking his limbs in a spastic thrash.

“Keep your weapons drawn at all costs,” Yukimura barks out.

The woman opens her mouth again, chanting more inaudible sounds and more runes and patterns light up on her body. The ground under their feet groans as the dust rises up, swirling around Kira's body and sharply darting through her nose and ears. Her mouth slips open in surprise, inviting a whip of dust to course through the new found entrance. Lydia races to her side, eyes darting between both the Asian woman and the convulsing man.

“ _What the fuck are you_?” Danny whispers, fear etched in his eyes.

The woman laughs, her voice thrilling over the sound of Jackson’s screams of pain, “Me? I’m Rosemary Wanwood, remember the name. You’ll never be able to forget it.”

Rosemary Wanwood glows with power, lips moving insistently, her body lighting up from inside out. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before. The woman floats above the grass ever so slightly, seemingly outlined by a trail of blazing fire. Her eyes are pure white, each devoid of an iris, devoid of human senses even. Her arms outstretch and a crackles of thunder booms through the woods, followed closely by a gleeful streak of lightning. She laughs maniacally. Valet fires her gun, bullets cutting sharply though the air only to fall limply down inches before her body.

“Get the sacrifices,” Hale yells, “Your guns are powerless here.”

Valet frowns for just a second, seemingly to protest, before grabbing Danny’s hand and darting towards the tied up civilians.

“Boyd, get Erica,” Hale orders and the other man moves immediately, leaping off the floor in impressive height and landing squarely beside the tree the woman is tied to.

“Don’t touch my offerings!” Rosemary wails, and the overhead lightning comes crashing down to the ground sparking by their feet.   
It force of it knocks Valet back away from the tree line. Stiles startles into action, firing rounds at the woman before running towards the civilians.

“Malia,” Hale calls out.

No order follows, but the girl springs into actions, leaping forward towards Rosemary. She snarls, grabbing at the woman’s ankle with her teeth. Rosemary shrieks, and the roots of the trees shoot out to wrap around Malia’s body. From the corner of his eye, Stiles can see Hale shift- face contorting, claws elongating, fangs dropping- and he leans forward, grabbing the roots the threaten to choke Malia and snapping them like twigs.

Stiles turns his attention back to the civilian tied up, and he pulls at the ropes. He lets go in favour of digging through into his pocket and pulling out a small Swiss army knife. He flips it open and the blade slides out, glistening in the faint light. Behind him he hears a bone chilling carol of a scream. Derek’s claws dig into the woman’s arms while Malia sinks her teeth into her legs. In a blink, Jackson falls down to the forest floor, twitching at the after effects of the electricity coursing through his body. Rosemary thrashes and with a jolt of energy sends the two careening backwards. Derek falls in a crouch, snarling viciously.

“Keep her screaming!” Lydia yells, “Hale! Keep her lips shut or screaming. She's a witch, these are just spells. She needs to chant to make the spells work!”

Hale snaps his attention briefly to the red head who cradles the fallen agent’s head. He nods stiffly, then charges towards Rosemary again. Gluttonous for punishment. The ropes come undone under the motion of the knife scraping against it and the body slumped down. Stiles reaches out and grabs the man, gently placing him down before turning his attention to the others. Agent Valet pulls out a knife from her boot and makes quick work with another, as does Danny. They pull at the thick ropes, blades cutting at the fibres. Boyd reaches out to touch the ropes that bind Erica and hisses, jumping back. Stiles rushes over to him.

“ _Mountain ash_ ,” Boyd groans, cradling his hand in pain.

“What?”

“ _Mountain_ ...I can’t touch it,” Boyd shakes his head, leaning to touch it again either way.

The woman thrashes again, wailing and straining against the ropes. Stiles can see little wisps of smoke rise from where the ropes are burning into her skin.

Beside him, Boyd murmurs, cradling the woman’s face, “It’s okay, Erica. I’ll get you out, hang in there baby.”

He tugs at the ropes again and hisses as pain shoots up his entire body.

“Boyd! What the fuck!” Stiles exclaims in a frenzied rush, “Stop that! Stop touching that! Just let me get her out.”

He lifts his army knife, slicing through the thick rope fibre by fibre as the woman thrashes and wails in unmistakable pain. Boyd snaps his attention to where Hale collides with the witch, hurtling her backwards. Kira falls down as the dust falls down to settle in the floor. She thumps down into the floor limply, almost lifeless, coughing out dust. Boyd glances briefly at Stiles, who nods jerkily, and then dashes forward to aid Hale. He can hear the sounds of faint chanting and the dust slowly begins to rise around his feet. A deafening roar sounds through the woods like a thunderclap as Derek lunges for her throat, flanked closely by Boyd and Malia.

Rosemary wails, lips moving in haste before a rune lights up and a root shoots out to pull Malia backwards, hurtling her towards the edge of the cliff. Lydia shrieks, rushing towards the girl, desperately grabbing her hands and pulling at her body. Yukimura stirs, reaching out to weakly hold on to Malia, pulling at her with the semblance of strength she has within her. Bullets fly though the air from beside him, where Agent Valet fires her gun. The bullets ricochet away from the woman. Stiles frowns at the frantic movement of her lips. Another spell. He groans, cutting through the final few stubborn fibres. He grabs the twitching woman who throws her head back and screams in pain, still seemingly unaware of his presence.

He gently places her down on the forest bed and spins around as Boyd grabs the Rosemary's neck and slams her back against a tree bark. She gasps, mouth falling open in a limp state of pain and shock.

A window.

Stiles fumbles, drawing out his gun and fires three shots rapidly. The bullets pierce through the air, and past the strange protective barrier, lodging themselves straight into Rosemary’s stomach. She gives out a piercing cry and the mumbles a burst of energy into action that casts Boyd and Derek violently off her. She scrambles to her feet, eyes trained in Stiles as she advances. Her body twists and bends, bone re-correcting themselves into their intended places. Her lips moves in a chant.

“ _sana fuerit emissa visitatio, ut revocetur habebit_ ,” she chants, “ _Sana fuerit emissa visitatio, reficio.”_

A intricate pattern on her right arm glows viciously.

The wounds in her body stitch themselves close, over the shrapnel of the bullet still ebbed into her skin. She stalks forward in a broken limp. Bullets fly past him only to still in the air and fall lifeless to the floor. Stiles steadies his gun. She outstretches her arm and Stiles can feel his body being dragged up off the ground. A sickening groan of pain leaves his body as his muscles burn and blood boils, too hot to contain. He can’t see anything, hear anything, do anything but feel the pain surge through his body. He’s heating up from the inside, his muscles twist in agony. They bend and twine- tensions building up like a stick about to snap. A thick, nightmarish roar breaks through his trance. In a black flash, Hale leaps forward. One second a man bounding through the air, the next a large, horrifically large snarling wolf.

The animal crashes into Rosemary’s body. The woman screeches at the impact of the ground. The hold breaks and Stiles falls down crumpling to the floor, weak eyes trained on the massive black wolf that circles around to stand before him. It lets out a chilling howl and lunges forward. 

* * *

  
The wolf can only hear pain. So much pain. There’s hot red anger flowing through his body, igniting every bony and muscle and sinew. He lunges forward, jaws clamping down on the woman’s arm, teeth ripping into the healing rune painted on to the supple skin. He rips through her skin like it’s nothing more than sheet thin fabric and tears out the muscles, tossing the bloodied flesh to the side. The woman writhes under him, trying to escape. She _cannot_. He won’t let her. She _must_ pay. He can hear his Betas screaming. Heeding warnings. Calling out to him. He has no time for their concerns, not now. The woman _must_ pay. She _must_ pay. She hurt his pack. She _must_ pay. She _keeps_ hurting his pack. She _helped kill_ his pack. She _must_ pay. He snarls, jaw unhinging to grab at the weak stretched skin of her throat. He’ll rip her throat out, with his teeth. Make her _pay_. Maybe make her _suffer_. Blood rushes in his ears. He can hear them calling out to him.   
_Boss._  
 _Hale._  
 _Alpha._  
 _Boss_  
 _Hale._  
He must make her pay.   
_Hale._  
 _Hale_.   
Derek.

“Derek! Derek stop!”

Voice so sweet. So powerful. He snaps his attention up, glancing at the boy lying weakly on the soil.

“Stop,” he chokes out.

“We need her alive,” Boyd's voice reminds, breaking through, “Alpha. Step down. _Please_.”

He snarls, looking down at the woman who chortles out a broken, gleeful laugh. He glances at Erica, writhing on the floor. Malia, hanging desperately at the edge of the cliff, scrambling and grasping at the red head's hands. At Boyd, crumpled against a tree bark. At the boy, blood trucking down the side of his head, eyes glazed over in pain. He’s _hurt_. He’s _bleeding_.

The wolf raises a paw to slash down on the witches face with his claws, wiping her twisted smile away. She screams underneath her, but her lips are too bloody, too torn. The scream comes out broken, staggered. She can mumble her chants no more. The wolf bounds towards the boy, tracking the smell of blood. He wines pitifully, eyeing the boy’s wounded forehead. Tentatively, he crouches beside him, lapping at the blood. _Bitter. Iron._ _Sadness. Pain_. He can’t make this better. He must make this better. He wedges his nose underneath the boys neck, sniffling. The boy groans, leaning against the wolf’s body, sighing and sinking down. _Tired_.

In the distance, the mouthy agent mutters, strained in pain, “Oh my god he’s right. There’s a lot of fresh air here.”

The wolf inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of the boy. _Of trapped power, honey, bitter sweat, blood, fresh air and_ home. He’s home. The wolf is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Kind of Important Notes;
> 
> 1\. Like I said in the opening notes, this isn’t the final chapter. However, it does somewhat conclude the mystery of the patterned dead bodies (ie the Beacon Hills Murders)
> 
> 2\. This story, much like the show The Blacklist, will follow a few more cases to properly expand the story and answer all the unanswered questions. As of right now, there are more questions than answers. And there are more questions to come. I ended this case (again, somewhat) because I felt like dragging this case till the entire mystery of Derek Hale was solved would be tiresome and also would present the A Team as really incapable. Plus, for plot reasons there needs to be more than one case. 
> 
> 3\. Basically, this story isn’t over and actually kind of just beginning. So the next chapter will probably be up by tomorrow.
> 
> 4\. | |I || |- (if you know, you know. I’m sorry I couldn’t help myself.) 
> 
> 5\. sana fuerit emissa visitatio, ut revocetur habebit- vaguely Latin for heal, fix, anew. 
> 
> 6\. Ergotism is one of my favourite Medieval and Salem Witch hunt related horror stories; https://www.medicinenet.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey=14891#
> 
> https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&url=https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ergotism&ved=2ahUKEwiQtuGW1tzjAhXJLY8KHakyAMAQFjADegQIAxAB&usg=AOvVaw3CNgIDRoySeB1tXXYUI2fX&cshid=1564491584936
> 
> 7\. I tried to make the ambulance scene as realistic as possible. But I’m not an EMT (power to those who are though! Forever grateful for what y’all do!) Sadly, I couldn’t find much online as to how Medics speak within an ambulance, besides some phrases and terminology. Plus, I took some creative liberties. Here are the terminology used (all of which are perfect legitimate to the best of my knowledge).
> 
> Two way radio- similar to a Walkie talkie.
> 
> EMT – Emergency Medical Tactician 
> 
> Respiratory depression- when someone’s rate and depth of breathing is very low, common in patients that have opioid overdoses. 
> 
> GCS- Glasgow Coma Scale. A term used to refer to a test conducted based on the responsiveness of a patient eyes, verbal and mortor skills. It is a scale from 3-15, 15 being perfectly fine. 
> 
> Secondary trauma- spinal injury or anything other injuries. 
> 
> Intubate- provide artificial breathing for an unresponsive patient or a patient showing respiratory problems. It is done to protect the respiratory system. 
> 
> HR- heart rate per minute. 
> 
> Narcan- intranasal naloxone. Naloxone is a drug that EMTs introduce to your body through your airway to wake you out of a opioid induced coma. I don’t think an EMT would ever use it this fast, but I added it anyway. 
> 
> ALOC- in this case, abnormal level of consciousness. It sometimes stands for lack of consciousness which I find very confusing. ALOC generally can describe a delusional patient, a patient responding abnormally or a comatose patient. It’s a very broad term, from what I’ve gathered.
> 
> I hope I haven’t offended anybody by an inaccurate depiction of EMTs!


	8. The Best Laid Plans Often Run Bone Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW; car crash

**Eight**.

  
**The Best Laid Plans Often Run Bone Deep**

  
_(Song; The Devils- Say Hi)_

* * *

The man taps his fingers on the steering wheel in cohesion with the rhythm, humming softly under his breath. The radio drones on, blasting an inane song that he can’t help but comply with, twitching his head side to side in aborted and reluctant movements.

“Just admit it,” his partner sighs, slouching into the passenger seat, “You like the song.”

“No.”

“Be a man, and admit it,” he says, groaning, “Admit it. I won, you like the song. Give me my ten dollars.”

“No,” the man repeats gruffly, “Because I don’t like the song. I hate it.”

“You love it.”

“Loathe it.”

“You can’t resist it.”

“Abhor it.”

In the back, their package groans. He sneaks a peak at the chained up woman slouched pitifully over her own body. He shrugs, turning his attention back to the ten dollars at stake.

“Despise it,” he forces his traitorous fingers to stop mid-jig.

“Mmhmm,” his partner rolls his eyes, “You’re being a cheap stake. You like the song, you owe me ten bucks! Come on, Dunbar. Cough it up.”

Dunbar groans, gripping the steering wheel tightly, “I don’t mind it. You said I have to like it. There’s a difference. The difference being the song doesn’t make me want to brain myself on the steering wheel and die, but it also won’t be added into any playlists anytime soon.”

His partner rolls his eyes again, the movement almost cognitive after extended periods of time in Dunbar's presence, “Taylor Swift grows on to you. Like a fungus. You’ll be working out to this soon enough.”

Dunbar scoffs, but doesn’t move to deny it. The song drones on, inane, abhorrent, but his fingers dance along with it either way like the mutineers they are. The road stretches out in front of them, winding and turning around corners, empty and lonely.

“There’s a gas station a few miles ahead,” his partner pipes up, “Let’s make a stop.”

“Fat chance,” Dunbar shakes his head.

“What? Why not? Dude, I got to piss!”

“Mason, we’re not making a piss stop at the gas station with _that_ ,” Dunbar jerks his head back to gesture at the package chained up in the back of the vehicle, “In the backseat.”

“Oh my god,” Mason rolls his eyes, “So what? She killed like three people, big deal! We deal with fuckers like her _every day_ , dude!”

“Doesn’t mean,” Dunbar grits out, “I’m going to make a piss stop with one in the back of the car. How’d she even kill them? Do _you_ know? Cause _I_ sure as hell don’t! I don’t think even _Finstock_ knows, and he’s leading the protection detail. I don’t even buy that she’s passed out. Hey lady! I don’t buy that you’re passed out.”

The woman’s head snaps up to attention, eyes glowing a wild purple. Mason shrieks, throwing an arm up to cover his chest. Dunbar’s eyes widen fractionally at the strange movement in the woman’s irises- like lightning striking within her very own eyes. He leans forward, peering through the grate that separates them to get a closer look.  
It all happens at once.

“ _They’re here_ ,” the woman gasps just as Mason clutches his forearm with a yell, “Dunbar!”

He snaps his eyes to the road just in time to see three large black SUV drive straight towards them. Their vehicle skids violently as Dunbar slams down on the breaks, causing the escort vehicles behind him to screech as they manoeuvre around to avoid him.

Everything’s a blur, his head collides with the window with a loud crack. The car spins, the tires screech, the woman wails, the chains rattle.

Then the sky explodes.

* * *

  
A flying figure body slams straight into him as soon as Stiles opens the door. He’s hurtled backwards into the corridor, spluttering and trying to desperately wring his arms out from underneath the assailant's body so that he can reach for his gun when the presumable face of the body nuzzles into his neck. Stiles sighs, giving up the mission of shooting the body in the stomach. A beat passes and the arms around his body untangle and the body steps back.

“Stiles!” the body jumps up in place like a pogo stick.

Stiles brings his hands up to bury his face in them as he catches his breath, “Scott, what the hell! What the actual hell!”

The said man pouts at the others evident distress, slinking behind his friend back into their shared apartment. The soft morning light pours in through the large windows of their loft, draping over the worn out red couch they’d poached off the street, along the lopsided brown coffee table that was decorated with faint coffee rings from mugs to fuel long nights and bundles of white envelopes containing numbers and deadlines and information Scott liked to avoid and Stiles liked to ignore, over the stacks of books piled messily beside the couch and over the half eaten sandwich sitting lonely in the white kitchen counter.

Stiles sighs, dropping his duffel bag down on the floor near the door and toes off his shoes left then right. He pads into the house in his socks, making a beeline towards the sandwich and claiming it as his own.

“Scott,” he chides, moving to flop down dramatically on the couch, “for the hundredth time, you _cannot_ body slam into an FBI agent. I could have shot you.”

“Its a _hug_ ,” Scott pouts, haphazardly moving the stacks of bills and notices to make room for himself, “And you wouldn’t have shot me.”

The smile that follows the sentiment is entirely too trusting and gleeful, and somehow the remedy for werewolves and witches and being magically tortured from the inside out that Stiles didn’t know he needed. He rolls his eyes, willing the memories of his muscles burning under his skin away.

“It’s a _body slam_ ,” he repeats, “and I totally could have shot you.”

Scott drops down to sit on the coffee table, eyeing his friend who lies on the couch in a position of pure melancholy that insinuate a forthcoming lament, but has so far lacked in the soliloquy front.

“It’s a _hug_ ,” he argues, “and you can’t just disappear for like days with just a _sticky note_ on the fridge door.”

“ _Body slam_. And yes I can, because that’s just my job now.”

“ _Hug_ , and specially not with the world’s most vaguest sticky note ever in the history of vague departing notes!”

“ _Body slam_ , and you know I can’t tell you anything about the missions I’m assigned to.” 

“ _Hug_ , and what part of _Got to go for an indiscernible amount of days, don’t eat the cheese_ though doesn’t scream I’ve actually been kidnapped and the guy taking me saw cheese and thought it would cut through the suspicion!”

“Okay firstly, _saw_ cheese? _Saw_ cheese? Secondly, I didn’t use the word _indiscernible_ , I know I didn’t. I don’t think I even know how to spell that. Thirdly, _abducted_.”

“What?”

“ _Abducted_. Not kidnapped, I’m not a _child_.”

Scott scoffs then breaks into a sheepish grin at the sight of his friend’s unamused glare. Stiles sighs, burying himself deeper into the couch, clutching a throw pillow to his chest but offers no further explanations and prods at no further arguments. Relenting, Scott rises from the coffee table and moves to gently pat at the other boys unruly mop of brown hair. The boy preens, snuggling closer to the hand.

“How badly,” Scott starts, swallowing thickly, “How badly would I have to fuck up for you to truly _truly_ hate me?”

Stiles frowns, glancing up at Scott in confusion. He looks over to the kitchen wall where a framed scrap of paper with scribbled letters in blue ink hangs on a single nail beside the fridge. He looks back at his friends then back at the frame then repeats the motion again.

“We have a laminated sign of friendship by our fridge?” he point avidly at the frame, “I don’t know, kill my future wife or husband?”

Scott sighs, looking over at the neat black frame that juxtapositions it’s messy contents. The note proudly, albeit messily, reads an economics answer that was passed over with haste to a stranger during a particularly long Tuesday lecture.

The stranger had gotten called upon by the harpy of a teacher, perched menacingly in the front of the hall with her glasses at the tip of her nose. The stranger, who was abruptly roused from his slumber had stared blankly at their lecturer, mouth gaping open in a comical fashion. Scott had panicked. The stranger had always been nice for him. Saved him a place so that he didn’t have to sit next to Michael Prince who would routinely crash against his shoulder when they filed out like it was high school all over again. The stranger let him borrow his pen and notes on countless occasions. If the stranger was kicked out, Scott risked the chance of loosing the only semblance nod a friend he had in California.

He had hurriedly scribbled the answer, praying to any god who would listen that his handwriting was legible, and passed it discreetly to the boy. The question was answered, the handwriting proving to be more than legible given the stranger’s own chicken scratch writing, and an unexpected but hoped for friendship had started. The stranger- _Stiles, man, just call me Stiles_ \- had decided to stick around. One look at the boy hip checking himself into the door and landing face first in the middle of the corridor had Scott, being the baby duckling that he knows he is, imprinting on him and vowing to never leave.

“You know what,” the voice that had been a stranger to him a few years back but was now permanently etched into his brain that it was hard to think of a time in which he didn’t know it, “If you killed my spouse, I’d probably assume it was for good reason. I mean you wouldn’t just kill anyone, not even an _ant_. So if it’s _my spouse_ then I probably ignored all the red flags in the name of love, or something.”

“I’m just saying,” Scott begins.

“Scott,” Stiles sighs, interrupting him, “You’ll probably never be able to do anything that I would really truly hate you for. Unless you chain me to a basement and torture me, okay that is not allowed.”

“ _Who_ the fuck would do _that_?”

Stiles scoffs, “Oh man, if only you worked with the people I do.”

Scott frowns, “You work with the _FBI_? Why would the _FBI_ chain people to walls? Isn’t the FBI like a the ones _against_ chaining people to basement walls?”

“Oh,” Stiles says hurriedly, “No, yeah. I meant people I work to find. Profile. Catch. Also, _Guantanamo_ , you know? You never really know. Who the bad guy is. Ignore me, I’m tired. Long day. Long flight. We- never mind. Nothing. Don’t worry, Scotty, nothing you do will ever make me hate you. _Beam up, Scotty_. Get it? Man I’m tired.”

Scott sighs, carding his fingers through Stiles’ hair as the other boy lulls into a sleep. He stares at the frame once more, hanging lopsided but holding so much hope and promise. There’s nothing to do, he supposes, but hope and pray that a single framed economics answer is enough to dig him out of the grave he’s dug.

* * *

  
Dunbar wakes up to the smell of smoke. Smoke, fire burning through metal, the smell is powerful and heady. It burns though his nose. He lets out a strained cough, his chest heaving up and down in the forced effort. He’s still in his vehicle, strapped and trapped in the seat. Something digs into his back, but he can’t see around the airbag that pushes into his body. The smell of smoke clouds his mind, slipping in through his nose and winding it’s way around his heart. He can’t feel anything. His body paralyzed with numbness, unable to move or scream. He can’t feel his legs, his arms. Panic swells up in his chest and he belatedly wonders if an dismemberment has occurred, and if he can even begin to assuage that. He’s stuck. He wants to screams but he can’t. He’s stuck.

“Liam,” a voice croaks from his side.

The sounds of heavy footsteps follow. There are distant shouts. Gunfire. He can’t see around the airbag. He can’t feel his face, can’t feel any pain. His vision swims.

“Liam?” the voice croaks again, “Dunbar?”

So much smoke. He can’t breathe. He can feel a slow cool trickle of blood running down the side of his face. He’s almost grateful for it. 

* * *

  
Stiles steps into the train car, minding the gap cognitively. He sighs, scans the throng of people briefly before settling against the cool wall by the door. A woman with her child no more than seven, a man with a stack of books and a worried frown plastered on his face, an elderly couple sharing longing gazes, a woman in a tight business suit talking incessantly on the phone with the patience of a hungry tiger, a fair haired man with a three day old issue of The New Yorker covering his face. Stiles sighs. The charade is back. He winds through the crowd till he’s in the man’s personal space, opting to ignore common Washington metro etiquette.

“Hey,” Stiles smiles.

The man puts down his paper, “Oh, you. Hello.”

Stiles beams. The man has sharp jaws, firm and square, with soft eyes framed by eyebrows pulled in together with a frown. He eyes flutter in a blink, long eyelashes dragging against his cheek. The man’s hair is tousled and damp. Stiles glances down at the man’s fingers, calloused and dry.

“Just thought I’d say hi,” Stiles shrugs, “Make up for being rude before.”

The man laughs a slightly stilted laugh. He leans back into the rail behind him and gives Stiles a brief once over.

“So,” the man begins, “You live in Washington?”

Stiles shrugs noncommittal. He looks up at the station titled that floats in and out of the digital sign overhead.

“Busy day, huh?” Stiles says instead, “Man, I hate the mornings.”

The man nods. Stiles lifts up his ear phones, and shrugs, in lieu of saying _Well, that’s it_. He pops them into his ears, watching as the stations fly through in bright yellow wording till the voice smartly announces _Gallery Place, Chinatown. Gallery Place, Chinatown_. Stiles clambers out of the train, distancing himself from the man by taking a sharp cut towards the men’s bathroom. The bathroom itself is filthy, just short of being uninhabitable despite it still being the early waking of the dawn. He winces, stepping into the bathroom and moving to the sink to ways his hands to give him purpose.

He eyes the stall door that’s still closed, till it opens with flare and a disgruntled man in a loose red flannel steps out. He momentarily eyes Stiles and then the sinks and then Stiles again and the running water. Deciding that he will, indeed and rightfully so, never see Stiles again, he grunts and steps out of the bathroom without ever having approached the sink. Stiles winces at the thought of his clammy hands touching the rails of the Washington metro cars.

Shaking his head, he pulls out his phone and hastily scrolls through his contacts before he lands on the desired one. The phone dials before being picked up on the second ring. He turns on the tap so the sound of the water rushing will fill the room.

“Hey Heather, it’s Stiles. Can you get me anything you’ve got on a man with the following description; fair, middle aged Caucasian male, possibly six feet one? Blonde hair, curly. Blue eyes. Educated, and possibly subscribed to The Economist, The New Yorker and Times- unless he stole all of those from waiting rooms. He’s got a medium build, takes the subway to Gallery Place, Chinatown. Not sure from where he gets on board. He’s never in a rush, so it’s probable that he won’t be working a nine to five job, or an early shift but don’t let that factor in the search just yet. If possible, try jobs that require handy work. He had very dry fingers- slight pruning. Over working with chemicals will do that to you, try a cleaning service, or a swimming pool.”

“Sure,” Heather’s chipper voice replies, “Any particular reason? This for a case?”

“Not really,” he says, turning the knob of the tap to shut it off, “I think I’m being followed.” 

* * *

  
US Marshalls Richard Finstock stands in the middle of the debris of burnt husks that once were escort vehicles. Three men injured, one unconscious. The attack had come out from left field.

Three black SUVs, sans number plates.

Two minor explosions, each with deafening blows that careened the vehicles off their desired path. The place still smelt of burning metal, crisp flesh, charred gravel.

One strong round of insistent firing by a single man with an assault rifle, clad in black staring far enough that the smoke from the explosions neatly drew a veil over his body hiding him from Finstock's sight. All three of his escort vehicles were attacked. Only one was looted. His men swarm nervously, dialling ambulances and back ups, leaving dealing with the Devil for himself.

He stiffly walks over to the vehicle turned upside down, at which his fellow men swarm around, aiding a Dunbar and Hewitt in their attempt to exit the burning vehicle. Finstock raises a hand in front of his face to shield himself from the heat that radiates from the dying fires. He peers into the back where a sheer lack of chains and chained woman stares back it him.

“Well then, fuck me I guess,” he mutters, pulling out his phone and dialling the dreaded number, “Finstock. I need to speak to Assistant Director Argent. No, I will not _hold_ , I need immediate assistance my team is stuck on the road- with all due respect, which is none, I just got grenades thrown at me like it’s _fucking dodge ball_ and my vehicles are currently in _mild flames_. So no, I doubt _triple A_ can fix this.”

* * *

  
Stiles flies into his office at the HQ with the grace and happiness that no one should possess at eight thirty in the morning on a Monday. He’s ecstatic- he _misses_ the comfort of dealing with serial killers who’s only mysteries are why the committed the crime, and how, instead of what kind of magic they used and what creature -who shouldn’t exist according to biology, physics and every other science- they are going to sacrifice.

He sits down at his desk, look over at the one single case file that awaits for him. His mind races. He’s grateful to be back within the confinements of what’s known, and he knows he should bask it in- bask in the glory that is working as one should work, with forces that intend to carry out the law not actively break it. He knows he should concentrate on his mundane case, because mundane was synonymous to tedious before but now rings in his ears like a the Kyrie Eleison being sung at full force by a gospel choir. He knows this.

He also knows that he isn’t driven by the need to establish himself in this world. He isn’t driven by the need to make a name for himself, see his face on famous cases or hear his rather complicated name be mentioned in lecture halls as he goes down in history. He isn’t driven by the need to buy the white picket fence house and provide for a family of three. He isn’t urged on by the American dream or the hope of changing the world. He isn’t striving to make a difference in the largest context, to bring down oppressive regimes he knows he realistically can’t handle or destroy social constructs that lie out of his ballpark. If he does them by happenstance, if he does break down a neatly and cruelly established social normative simply by existing as a bisexual man comfortable in his masculinity, then so be it. But that isn’t what drives him, and he knows this. He’s not nearly as self loathing and pitiful to be driven by spite either.

He’s driven by the need for _information_. He thirsts for it. Longs for when he can finally say he knows, he’s understood. He adores that he can never say he truly knows, that understanding runs so deep that one has never truly finished learning anything. He yearns to understand the full picture. He loathes loose ends. He loathes _the single loose end_ that stares back at him, that nags in the back of his mind, that eats away at every other possible thought till it reign sole ruler. Among werewolves existing, and defeating witches and being tortured by a source he still fully doesn’t understand, among being blindsided by an onslaught of memories, and having to coexist and cooperate with creatures seen as animalistic even before he knew they hid underneath them claws and fangs- there lies a loose end. 

He opens up the records of the FBI open cases within the last few weeks until his eyes land on the one he wants. He rapidly dials the number attached to the case, leg bouncing up and down as the line rings and rings and rings.

Till finally, “Belleville police station, how may I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Agent Stilinski from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I was hoping you could answer some questions for me regarding the Dawson Warehouse Case.”

* * *

  
“A case opened up three days ago,” he says.

He’s seated in Argents office, leaning against the back of his chair, eyeing the room with a slight amused smile. His fingertip traces the edge of Argent's desk. Chris frowns at the contact, twisting his lips as he watches the man. To the far corner, with a gun held less than subtly by his thigh stands Boyd, stoic and seemingly uncaring of their conversation.

“Rather,” Hale continues, “A case was brought to the FBI's attention three days ago, and the local police's I believe a week ago. Four deaths ago.”

Chris nods, “Several cases come forward in such a manner.”

Hale hums, “The particular case was raised by the Police Department of the little measly town of Jericho, California. I would personally avoid the place, alcoholism being somewhat of a black plague there, but under the circumstances I suppose I could break my typical rules. We should head down there soon, scope the place. It will be like a fun little road trip. Maybe not fun, but little.”

“Is this your second case?” Argent frowns, “Is this our second mission, for your little _supernatural hit list_?”

Hale laughs, the sound detached from his demeanour. Albeit casual and languid, he remains alert. Serious, morose. Outwardly, Chris can asses him as charmingly calm, but his eyes speak of a hardened coldness and strict business attitude.

“Supernatural hit list? Well, we must come up with a better name than that. Besides, Argent, you speak of it like I am its sole benefiter.”

Chris shrugs, “Well I won’t deny that it’s been nice making sure people don’t die, but what exactly do you gain?”

“Ah, now,” Hale tuts, “Telling you my motives was never a part of our deal, and you only have your oversight to blame. Nevertheless, let me put your mind to ease somewhat. Let’s just say, you get to catch the bad guys and look like hero’s, albeit subtly since this subject isn’t meant to each the public eyes, I assume. Meanwhile, I can enjoy the fact that a few troublesome supernatural entities that are painting a rather sordid picture of our community are taken out.”

Chris eyes his suspiciously, but relents nevertheless. Trusting a criminal's own account of their motives, when said criminal is known to be a pathological liar, isn’t the smartest move either way. He’d have to find it out for himself.

“We both get to take out the trash, Chris,” Hale rises to his feet fluidly, “I’ll meet your team in Jericho, there’s no way in hell that I am boarding your death trap of a metal bird.”

The man moves towards the door in smooth strides, one simple flick of the wrist enacting as a command for Boyd to step out of his corner and follow.

“Wait,” Chris frowns, “What are we looking at? What’s this case? What do I tell my people?”

Hale grins, “Well, I sure am glad you ask, Chris. You tell them that we have a nasty little problem at our hands that goes by the name of _lack of immunity_ that’s causing one temperamental man to be quite off put and tense. Then you tell them that we have another little menace that calls itself a _succubus_ that’s causing the death of unfaithful men. Which ones worse, I’ll let them deicide.”

He moves out floating through the door he’d come through, leaving Chris to begrudgingly do a pathetic scour of the internets knowledge on whatever a _succubus_ is.

The door to his office flies open while he is still mid-search, just as he’s beginning to think that a succubus truly may be the worst of their problems.

“Finstock’s convoy was attacked,” Whittemore breathes out.

“What?”

“Finstock’s convoy was attack. It was attacked by some mystery SUVs; two explosions, three dead. Not sure how many are injured. And they stole her.”

“They stole her?”  
“ _Rosemary Wanwood_. Rosemary Wanwood is _gone_.”

* * *

_(a few days prior)_

  
Clarisse knocked on the door, frowning at her file in hand. The door flew open almost immediately and the man in front of her graced her with a furious frown.

“You must be the Watchman?” she smiled, moving past him into his abode.

“ _You’re_ the _Caretaker_?” he scoffed.

Clarisse shook her head with a slight chuckle, “Hardly. No, simply work for the Caretaker. The Caretaker does not like to be seen.”

The Watchman rolled his eyes, moving to sit heavily on a simple red couch. Clarisse opened her file, scanning her notes with haste.

“Is the subject still outside of town?”

The Watchman glowered, “This isn’t a part of the deal.”

“Is the subject still in California?”

“This was not in the initial agreement.”

“Is the subject still in Beacon Hills, California?”

The Watchman inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as he assessed her. He stood up with a broken yell and stalked heavily towards the kitchen area.

“I didn’t sign up for this. You only said I had to protect him. Why are you asking these questions? This isn’t the agreement!”

“I’m sorry sir, but I was simply told that the situation has changed, and that the Caretaker needs you to report on the subject.”

“Reporting on the subject,” the man seethed, “Was never a part of what I agreed to. You need to leave. This was not what I agreed to.”

“I’m sorry sir, I simply represent the Caretaker. I cannot leave without the necessary information for my boss.”

“Then tell your boss to go fuck himself.”

Clarisse jumped back in surprise, clutching her chest with one hand. Her eyes widened in shock as she watched the man grip the counter top with barely restrained anger.

“The Caretaker is a _very_ dangerous person,” she began slowly, “You do not want to make an enemy of him. Nor does the subject.”

“He doesn’t want to make an enemy of me.”

Clarisse laughed, unable to help herself, “And what will _you_ do, sir? The Caretaker is a man who makes bodies disappear. He’s the _Graveyard Keeper of Crime_. He’s dealt with people more dangerous than you can ever hope to be. You can make an enemy of him, but by the time your fight is over your parents will not have a body to bury.”

The Watchman stared back at her, breathing heavily. He leaned back against the counter with a sigh, letting his head fall back. Clarisse watched him intently, taking in the defeated slump of his body and the way his arms- thickly built, with the faint peak of a simplistic tattoo from out under his shirt sleeve- crossed over his wide chest. She swallowed.

“Is the subject still in Beacon Hills, California?” she repeated. 

There was a resolute silence broken moments later by a sigh.

“Yes.”

Clarisse beamed, sitting down on the edge of the strange red couch, “Have you spoken with the subject since his departure to Beacon Hills, California?”

“We both know his name,” the Watchman groaned, “Just say it. _Stiles_. Have I spoken to _Stiles_ since he left? No, no I haven’t. How much longer is this going to take?”

Clarisse looked down at her list of questions, then up at the man in front of her.

“Has the subject been experiencing any heartaches, heart burns, chest pains or headaches?” she asked instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm not a fan of giving excuses for myself and I know that if it was hard for me to write then I should have just not written it but for what it's worth, the car crash scene is admittedly lacking and I really tried but having been in a car crash (much less dramatic and sans explosions) just last year, I still find it hard to go into details. I wrote it in either way because I hated the idea that i was still unable to write something I used put into stories a lot so this might have been just a tad bit cathartic on my part.  
> Anyway, here's the next segment and the start of the new case. Like I said, elements of the old case will still be here!
> 
> Also; I have exams this month, so expect only weekly updates (instead of our usual 2 to 3 updates per week) just until August is up :D


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